


Antigonish

by PastelCryptids



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: 1860s, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, And I will warn for anything majorly triggering in the notes, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, But it isn't as dark as it looks, Eventual Romance, F/M, Huh these tags are a mess, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Oops my headcanons spilled everywhere gosh golly, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Period Typical Attitudes, Pinky promise, Slow Burn, Spiritualism, Suicide, You know this looks really bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 49,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28822089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelCryptids/pseuds/PastelCryptids
Summary: After a marriage of convenience and her father's death, newlyweds Christine Daaé and Raoul de Chagny move into his family home. There, she begins to realize somethings off — and it's not just the ghosts that are wandering the halls nor the angelic-voiced ghost that seems more alive than most.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 62
Kudos: 36





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yesterday, upon the stair,  
> "I met a man who wasn't there  
> "He wasn't there again today  
> "I wish, I wish he'd go away..."
> 
> "When I came home last night at three  
> "The man was waiting there for me  
> "But when I looked around the hall  
> "I couldn't see him there at all!  
> "Go away, go away, don't you come back any more!  
> "Go away, go away, and please don't slam the door... (slam!)"
> 
> "Last night I saw upon the stair  
> "A little man who wasn't there  
> "He wasn't there again today  
> "Oh, how I wish he'd go away..."
> 
> Antigonish (I Met a Man Who Wasn't There) by Hughes Mearns

Christine had dreamt of butterflies.

They were quite a common occurrence; she would often see one fluttering about in places they did not belong, and she would wonder if she had accidentally left a window open. They tickled her fingers and tangled themselves in her hair — leaving blacks, whites, blues, and yellows drowning her vision.

And then, she woke up.

Many thought nothing of their dreams, and Christine Daaé was one of the many. Her dreams were simply tossed aside, replaced with other important thoughts such as what she was to eat that morning or what to wear. She forgot them by the time she had wiped the sleep from her eyes, anyway.

Except for one.

Christine stared at the snow-covered entrance of de Chagny Manor, the black gate a stark contrast from the white powder around it. Snowflakes blinded her eyes. The wind stung her skin, and the snow burned her feet. Her muscles ached and whined in exhaustion despite their little movement. Red surrounded her, spotty in some areas and abundant in others. It was a stain that clawed across the snow, hungry to consume the white powder that went on for miles.

Several yards beyond her, another woman stared at her. Her olive skin and flowing, black hair were just as prominent as the gate. She was silent, patient.

Her long, skinny arm pointed far behind Christine — pointed at the very thing that made her heart shudder. Christine had to return; she understood that well. The quicker she returned, the quicker she could leave. De Chagny Manor grew closer and closer. It was a house that once echoed love. It echoed an unending, deranged, passionate love which she could never give back. It echoed death.

The greyed stone loomed over her, leaving a dull shadow stained against the ground. All around her were withered trees, rotting from the biting cold and neglect. He had allowed her to plant flowers around the front yard when Spring arrived. She supposed that was no longer an option — not that it ever was in the first place. The winter here seemed endless. The land around the manor was desolate and empty; a gaping emptiness that called out to nature to fill its bones.

One of the rotted, front doors was left ajar from her carelessness. She had forgotten to close it — her mind was far too occupied focusing on running to remember such trivial things. It groaned as the wind slammed against it. She let herself in. The manor made an odd mockery of itself. If Christine focused her eyes enough, she could barely see the original design. The manor always lacked a sense of warmth, but she could still feel the smallest bit of heat from a once lit fire.

As she continued her trek, the wooden floor creaked beneath her weight. Snow had fluttered in through the broken windows and made small piles across the halls. Dust and grime had formed a thin layer over the furniture. The old, familiar groans of the piping within the walls keened in her ears and sent shivers down her spine. She wanted to leave, run away from this damned manor and never return.

But he was waiting for her. 

He expected her to return and take him far away from this hellhole with her; and who was she to betray him?

She stopped at the center of the entrance. A peal of faint, feminine laughter tickled her ear. There was no point in acknowledging such noises anymore. Memories had a fondness of making themselves known here. Their memories, the horrors that filled the walls, filled the manor with life.

A butterfly flew from the fireplace, its white wings not even marred by soot. Christine held out her shaking hand and allowed it to land on her finger. It seemed curious about the appendage before flying off and soaring in circles around the ceiling. Another flitted its way out of the fireplace. Then another and another and another, until only whites, oranges, and blues drowned out the dull greys and browns of the room. They swirled together and created a masterpiece of organic colors and life. 

Christine watched as they flew out of the shattered windows and opened doors. And as they left, her heart felt lighter — as if it would flutter from her chest as well. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the musty, dry air. The manor breathed with her.

And then, she woke up.


	2. A Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, at she stood there silent, she became so strange  
> Before her clear eyes a fog grew  
> The sweet childhood blush faded from her cheeks  
> And slowly from her heart a dark pain rose.
> 
> She could not know, what this pain was;  
> But sorrow had written its first rune in her heart  
> And marked its image deep on her soft features  
> No longer did it disappear with her last tear
> 
> She thought of her mother, but not as lightly as before,  
> And thus new worlds dawned behind the black veil of grief:  
> Like a look at the sea from the dark fortress of the coast  
> So the possibilities of life are revealed by the child’s first sorrow.
> 
> (The First Sorrow of the Child, Andreas Munch)

He had died.

Her papa had died, and his corpse lied in the parlor.

He was surrounded by lilies meant to disguise the smell of death and the cruel ugliness of it. Wrapped in his arms was his violin. The sunlight in the window made the fine wood of the instrument shimmer. She had polished and restrung it herself the night he died. Christine refused to sleep; sleep meant dreams and dreams meant memories.

Preparing for his funeral was all a rush. Death was an integral part of Victorian life, after all. It lingered in the corners between walls, the cracks hidden in the foundation of your home, or the faces of your loved ones. If you did not adhere to the strict schedule and etiquette that came with the cruel mistress, then a heavy cloud of social ostracism would fall over you. So, Christine swallowed her tears and began to work.

Purchasing everything was much easier than you would expect. A casket was ordered and immediately placed in the parlor. An embalmer filled her papa’s body with an odd, odorous liquid which was promised to keep him preserved for the time being. It made him look more like a mannequin if anything. Flowers were arranged and surrounded him. The entire house would smell like lilies for quite a while, much to Christine’s chagrin. She had already found that she was _not_ fond of such a flower. Too many reminders. 

A plot in the graveyard belonging to the church that she and her papa attended was bought. The church was hesitant at first — the idea of having a black man buried in their grounds seemed to put a bad taste in their mouth — but, when they were reminded of the musical contributions her papa had given them — for free, mind you — they were easily persuaded. 

And, then, it was all done. All Christine had to do now was sit and wait for the funeral which was only a few days away.

She sat in the drawing-room staring, for that was all she could do lately — think and do nothing. Her skirts crowded around her. Her mourning gown was yet another thing she had to spend money on. An entire wardrobe — that was what was required of her. The only dull color she would not be wearing for a year would be her nightgown, but, even then, she would be asleep half of the time. She would much rather wear a nightgown. The crepe of the dresses was stiff and uncomfortable. It stained her skin and took several minutes of scrubbing to get one blotch off. It was impossible to imagine why anyone would wear such a thing daily. _She_ would have chosen to never wear such a thing if it were not for the strict etiquette. 

A maid who wore the same shade of black entered the room, her hands folded behind her back. “The Vicomte de Chagny wishes to see you, mademoiselle.”

Christine’s breath ceased. She had not expected him to return so soon. Collecting herself, she brushed off her skirt and nodded at the maid. “See him in, please.”

Raoul de Chagny was somewhat of an enigma to her. They had known each other many years ago, though it felt like centuries. Childhood friends seemed like the aptest term to describe such a relationship. It had barely been a full two months since they had reunited, but she still was not fully sure what they were _now._ Unmarried women and men were not typically “friends.” Such a thing was quite too improper according to the stuffy elders around her.

The door squeaked. The maid held it open, keeping her head lowered for the man entering. Christine immediately stood and clasped her hands. She straightened her back and kept her head barely inclined towards the ground.

Raoul froze. “Christine,” he breathed. His clothes were just as black as hers, much to her surprise. She had not expected him to focus on mourning until her papa’s funeral.

Even in his current state, he was a pleasing man. He had a grin that seemed to glow — the moment he flashed his pearly-white teeth and charming dimples, all eyes were on him. It was the kind of grin that called out to you, told you that this was a man of high regard and whom you should respect and appreciate. His sandy-blonde hair and sapphire-blue eyes certainly enhanced the effect.

She would have called him the most handsome man in all of Paris if it were not for the dark cloud that seemed to hover over his eyes as of late.

Though she had the same dreariness that fell upon her, it felt wrong for him to have such a look. Men like him were meant to be happy — with smiles that never seemed to leave and a joke always at their lips. He did not deserve to feel as awful as she did.

“Monsieur le Vicomte,” she murmured, curtsying as she did so.

He stepped forward while he continued to fiddle with his top hat. “You can call me Raoul, Lotte. No need to be formal now.”

“Of course.” She nodded. “Raoul.”

The smile he gave her was gentle, which, in all honesty, she was quite exhausted from seeing. It had only been one day, and everyone — even the household staff — would give her such a look as they passed. It was either that or a look of solemnity that made her feel as if she were an omen of bad luck.

With an internal huff, she gestured to a nearby armchair. “I shall see to it that a maid sits with us.”

“You needn’t do that,” Raoul snorted.

"You're not supposed to be alone with me without a chaperone," she scolded, reciting the rules her papa had taught in her.

Despite the dull air that seemed to hover over them, he genuinely smiled. "Come now, Lotte, I feel that we've known each other long enough to not need such a rule."

"It's only decorum," Christine replied, shrugging, "I had assumed you learned such things while you were in Bordeaux."

"Oh, I did," he chuckled. Raoul sat in the armchair diagonal from her. "I just never cared much for them when it comes to you."

Her lips quirked. “Is that meant to be an insult, Monsieur le Vicomte?”

“Oh, quite the opposite, Lotte,” Raoul said, beginning to fiddle with his gloves, “I simply find it easier to be myself around you. No need for silly rules and such. You never seem to care.”

“I’m — I’m glad you feel that way.”

He beamed at her. “As am I.”

Christine’s eyes fell to the floor as she suddenly found the patternless carpet fascinating. The maid returned to the drawing-room carrying tea. Raoul's eyes widened as he quickly shook his head.

"I apologize, but I was hoping I could take Mademoiselle Daaé out this afternoon."

She glared at him with concern.

“Nothing that would disrespect your mourning,” Raoul cried, waving his hands bashfully, “just a simple walk through the park.”

She arched an eyebrow. "Just the two of us?"

Breaking social rules in private, away from prying eyes, was one thing, but to do so in public… 

"Well, yes. I had hoped —" he began mumbling as he scratched the back of his head. 

"You do realize how much a scandal that would be, yes? The high-class ladies you associate yourself with would have a riot."

He waved his hand. "Nothing a little money or persuasion can't fix."

"Money may change what one outwardly says about you, but it doesn't change what one _actually_ thinks of you," she countered.

It seemed he was genuinely surprised by that. Any argument that was formulating at his tongue had gone limp the moment he finished talking. He closed his gaping mouth and cleared his throat, adjusting his cravat as he did so. "Well, I suppose we could bring someone along —"

She sighed. "You really want this to be just the two of us, don't you?"

"Yes…?" He squeaked, his posture tensing.

"Ah," she sighed, "I suppose we could make some sort of excuse if anyone asks."

Raoul grinned like a giddy child finally getting what they wanted. He clapped his hands and stood with a start. "Wonderful! I shall call for a carriage while you put on your hat and gloves."

He was gone in the blink of an eye, having already learned the layout of the house before her papa had passed. Christine sat still for another few moments, still not entirely sure what had just occurred.

It was barely a minute before a maid had fetched her bonnet and cloak, and she was practically swept off of her feet and shoved into a carriage. Raoul stayed mostly silent, though his excitement emanated throughout the entire space. His lips were permanently pursed in a miniature smile, even when he looked away from her and studied the window.

They arrived at the Bois de Boulogne. Even in the still cold winter, Parisians happily walked through the park. Ladies’ fine cloaks complimented their rosy noses and cheeks, and the men beside them looked quite proud to have the finest lady — in their opinion — by their side. Raoul looked no different, walking with his chest puffed and a coy smile at his lips. Of course, Christine was a jarring difference from the light colors and happy attitudes with her pitch-black mourning gown and a rather dull expression. She blamed the veil, for her cheeks were just as rosy and she felt the same amount of mirth as anyone else — at least, that was what she hoped.

Raoul led her to a more private area of the park, where the trees seemed to have grown closer together and formed an alcove of sorts. Shards of sunlight leaked through the spaces between leaves and shifted with the whistling wind. It brought her peace, all things considered.

“Surprise!”

Christine turned her head to Raoul and followed his arms to what he was gesturing at. A finely sewed blanket rested over the grass. A picnic basket sat beside it, shining in the sunlight with its clean, carved wood. Christine felt her face flush beneath her veil. “Oh, Raoul, I —”

“I thought it would be nice for us to eat out on such a rare, nice day,” he said, taking her hand, “if that would please the lady?”

“You’re too kind,” she whispered.

“I’m only doing what I thought would make you happy.”

Christine took his hand, and he led her to the blanket. She sat down carefully, her skirts pooling around her as she did so. The moment the picnic basket was open, the ambrosial smell of whatever he had packed. She took a deep breath, savoring it as much as she could. Raoul pulled out a bottle of champagne and two glittering glasses. He filled them both with a plentiful amount of liquid and handed one of the glasses to Christine.

“Ladies first,” he said with a wink.

She took it and thanked him. The bubbles tickled her mouth and made her shake her head in reaction. Raoul swirled the liquid in his glass, studying it as it formed a small, artificial whirlpool. "How are you faring, my dear Lotte?”

“Oh! Well,” she fiddled with her hands, “I’ve been managing. You know that.”

“But I don't. We ought to be more communicative.”

Christine closed her eyes. “I know, I just — Everything is happening _so fast._ Every duty I am meant to carry out being stacked upon all of my financial issues — not to mention his funeral. I haven’t — I haven’t had a chance to just… Think.”

“The good death is such a difficult thing to achieve, it seems,” he sighed, "I know _that_ very well."

"I only want him to have the best I could possibly give. It's what he deserves after all of the hell he has been through," she confessed.

“He really _must_ be important to you.”

She smiled. “Of course. He was too wonderful for words to describe.”

“Yes, yes he was,” Raoul said coldly, “though it is still odd to refer to him with ‘was,’ is it not?”

“I forced myself to do it,” Christine confessed, “it made things easier, I suppose.”

"If only I could make mourning as you, then," he chuckled.

She shook her head. "It's not easy, not at all.”

Her heart felt empty. She missed her papa’s burnt-umber skin, his calloused hands, roughened from playing the violin and carrying luggage constantly. She missed his greyed hair with its tight coils. She missed _him._

“Sometimes,” she confessed, “I'll wake up in the middle of the night thinking I've heard him, or I'll see glances of him in the halls. But the worst of it all is the horrible loneliness. It emanates from the silence, the empty chairs. And once I think I'm used to it all, something, like a piece of memorabilia, always drags me back in.

"It hurts. It hurts in an odd way. My chest will ache, and there is always a pressure just behind my face that threatens to spill tears," Christine sighed and stared up at the ceiling, "I don't know what to do with myself."

Raoul’s hand clasped hers. He looked into her eyes. “You know that I am here for you, right?”

“I…” her cheeks felt the faintest bit of warmth, “I’d like to think that.”

“Well, I am, and I certainly don’t plan on abandoning you any time soon,” he affirmed, squeezing her hand.

“T — Thank you, Raoul,” she murmured. Suddenly, she burst into soft giggles. At his concerned glance, she shook her head. “God, it feels like you are the only one who genuinely cares. The first one who gave this speech and means it.”

“Whatever do you mean, Lotte?” He asked, frowning.

Christine shrugged. “Most of the people I’ve encountered say it out of pity. They never bothered to get to know Papa, let alone acknowledge him. Now that he’s dead, they _must_ act like they care. If not, they will appear rude.”

“I doubt that’s _entirely_ true.”

“The mind knows better than the heart, Raoul. I can see it in their eyes — the apprehension to even _approach_ me. I am too odd to them, and Papa was too poor, too black. It is easier to appreciate someone who disgusts you when they are dead,” she said.

His mouth shut. He had no understanding of what she spoke of — he never would, and she knew that. Raoul lived a life of privilege. Everyone liked him in one way or another. No one distrusted him for reasons that were only skin-level, and they certainly had a fondness of his looks and money. He was not like them, but he was still detached… But he was also the only one who would listen. 

“I — I’m sorry that has been happening. I never thought —”

“It’s difficult to imagine a world you were never a part of.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he nodded, his eyes wandering back to his champagne. With a large sip, he placed the glass back onto the blanket. “I suppose we should eat before the food goes bad, yes?”

“Oh! Of course.”

There were several sandwiches stuffed with a plentiful amount of salted meat, cheese, and cress. A container of plump strawberries and raspberries sat beside them, as well as several tarts and other miscellaneous sweets.

“I made sure to ask for plenty of treats. I distinctly remember that you used to have an awful sweet tooth when you were younger,” Raoul explained with a playful smile.

“And that certainly is still true,” she chuckled, taking a bite from her sandwich. 

It tasted heavenly, which was not a word she used to describe food often, and Christine found herself eating unusually fast. Raoul did not seem to care, however, as he still ate casually, allowing his eyes to wander to her.

They stayed focused — as if he were attempting to memorize every part of her. Her cheeks flush, though if it were due to discomfort or bashfulness, she did not know. Every glimpse she took of him did nothing to deter his focus. He wanted something. No — craved.

Christine took a deep breath and fully turned to face him. If he would not say anything, she would make him. She forced a smile. “You seem distracted today.”

“I suppose I am,” he replied with a sad smile of his own. That look in his eyes quickly faded as his smile glimmered. “It is nothing of importance, though.”

Her expression soured. “Of course.”

She turned away from him and took a sip of her champagne. His niggling stare stayed firm. In the corner of her eye, she could see him nibbling his bottom lip. He was always weak-willed when it came to her. The silent treatment was practically the same as waterboarding for the man. At this point, his resolve was as firm as a pillow.

He squeezed the fabric of his pants. With a dejected sigh, he cleared his throat. "I… I had another reason I wanted to take you out on this fine day, Lotte."

_There it is._

She raised a hesitant eyebrow. "And what was it?"

“Stand up,” he ordered. She did what he asked, hesitantly, and watched as he got on his knees like a worshipper before God and clasped her hands. "Lotte, I — I realize that it is a very inconvenient, quick request, but I…"

Christine's hands shook violently. "What is it?"

Raoul cleared his throat and shook his head. "Christine Daaé, I understand that I have only been reunited with you for a month, but I'm afraid that in such situations… I am asking for your hand."

The blood drained from Christine's face. 

He was proposing.

To _her._

"Pardon?"

"I have been pondering the question ever since Gustave passed, and I — I realize I have never made an effort to publicly court you. But with your financial and living conditions, I believe it is the right thing to do. 

"You are nineteen years old now — the suitable age to marry — and I am two years your senior, so it would not be an _uncomfortable_ arrangement. You will need no dowry; I am a vicomte and can survive without such a foolish thing. We do not need any form of romance between us — we will have separate bedrooms, as usual, and we don't even have to share a marriage bed. All I want to do is be sure that you are stable in every part of your life."

He spoke of his proposal as if it were a business deal, and, perhaps, it was. But vicomtes did not marry poor, orphaned women that had no class or title. Vicomtes did not marry women that looked like her.

Her dried lips parted. “Surely you jest?”

Raoul appeared taken aback at the comment, his body stiffening and pulling away from her. “I would never fool a lady in such a way. I mean it from the bottom of my heart. I am willing to provide for you, Christine.”

Had her heart not been securely trapped within her ribcage, she was sure it would have burst from it like a cannonball. She tried to see past the facade of his fine face and suave refineries that had been instilled in him since a child.

"You must want something out of this. No man in their right mind would tie himself down with a woman such as me," she released a shivering breath, "what is it that you want?"

He winced. "Admittedly," he sighed, "there would be _some_ benefit for me. I have been expected to wed a lady for a while now — ever since I have come of age. Obviously, that has proven fruitless. So, if we were to marry, then that would help take the pressure off of my back.”

A marriage of convenience, then.

“But you will be expected to have an heir, will you not?”

His cheeks turned a faint pink. Adjusting his cravat he cleared his throat. _“Yes…_ But I’m sure that we’ll come up with some sort of compromise or idea.”

“I — I see…” she murmured, nodding weakly.

“So,” he began, “what say you?”

Christine closed her eyes and imagined that all of the world had faded away. Raoul de Chagny had not just gotten on his knees and proposed to her. Gustave Daaé had not just died and was resting in a coffin in the parlor. Christine Daaé was alone to herself and only herself.

There were certainly a large number of reasons why she should say ‘yes,’ if not only for the reason that Raoul was a vicomte with a great deal of money. Normally, in such situations, Christine would not think of something so shallow as a positive, but now, she was an orphan with not a penny to her name. All of her funds were spent on her papa's funeral and burial, despite Raoul's offers of donation. A lady’s only way of financially supporting herself was to work in a factory or become a woman of the night. Both, from what she had read, were quite unpleasant. Marriage with a rich man, let alone a vicomte, would allow her to escape from an inevitable impoverished situation.

But what of love? What of the true, genuine emotions she felt towards the man? She had, as sappy as it was, promised herself to bind herself with someone she genuinely loved. Admittedly, she had a fondness for him from her girlhood. He certainly brought a blush to her face whenever he kissed the top of her hand or complimented her in any way. But that certainly was not love. Love was far more than childish crushes that could disappear with the snap of your fingers. Husbands and wives were meant to love each other; if not, then the vows they made before God were all mere fabrications.

She could certainly learn to love him, though. If her heart beat rapidly at the sight of him, then it must mean something, right? A year of mourning; that was a perfect amount of time.

A deep breath and her eyes opened. “I will marry you." 

The giddiness that burst forth from him was incomparable. From his pocket, he produced a ring that glimmered in the sunlight. Before he could proceed, she squared her shoulders and tore her hand from his. "On one condition."

He blinked. "And that would be?"

"You will not tie me down. I will still be the mistress of my own actions as I was before you slip that ring on my finger. I will be able to speak my mind, and my thoughts will certainly not be suppressed."

"I see no issues with such a condition," he replied nonchalantly.

"Then you shall have my hand," she said, forcing the smallest of smiles.

Raoul returned the expression and gently took her hand in his once more. After softly kissing it, he slipped it on her finger; a perfect fit. A large diamond centered the ring. Dozens of colors reflected off of it in the sunbeams from the window. Smaller diamonds encircled it, just as beautiful and colorful as its larger sibling. Gold encircled her finger and served as the firm base for the diamond centerpiece.

"I hope it's to your liking?"

She looked up from the ring and met his eyes in an attempt to increase her smile. "It's absolutely beautiful."

“I ordered it just for you,” he admitted, “I made sure it fit and everything.”

This was more than just a marriage of convenience for him — she knew that now. No man gambled with such money over a ring that he was not entirely sure would be given away. A lump formed in her throat.

“Will you mind waiting so long?” She asked.

“One year,” he breathed, “I would wait one thousand more just to marry you.”

_One year,_ she repeated, _that's all you will need._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter!! Honestly, the very beginning of this chapter was pure joy for me... Mainly because I love Victorian mourning traditions. It may sound weird, but it is so fascinating. There's a great video by Caitlin Doughty/Ask a Mortician about Victorian funeral practices as well as death photography. I recommend watching it!
> 
> Secondly, hopefully, Raoul's proposition wasn't too rushed. I came across the issue of pacing when it came to this entire chapter/situation. Originally, all of these moments were going to spread across three separate days, with Raoul finally proposing on the third day. I realized that it would be too many chapters that were too short. Also... I realized y'all would have to wait even longer to see a certain masked man (Wink wonk).
> 
> Speaking of masked men... It'll take a little to see Erik, as I want to set some certain things up before he appears. However, I do promise that once he appears, he will be there constantly... Kind of like an overly-attached puppy.
> 
> Thanks a lot for reading and feel free to comment about anything! How are you feeling right now? How's quarantine? I love talking to y'all :D


	3. The Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A house as old as this one becomes, in time, a living thing. It starts holding onto things... Keeping them alive when they shouldn't be. Some of them are good; some of them bad... Some should never be spoken about again."  
> (Crimson Peak, Guillermo del Toro)

It was in late January, a year later, that the newlyweds set off for Bordeaux. Raoul had decided they would move into his family home, claiming it was a nice place — _"wonderful for children,"_ Raoul had added — and Christine would adapt to it well. And who was she to disagree? She had no future in Paris, as much as she loved the fine city. The only thing that kept her there was her papa’s grave, something she would not be visiting any time soon.

Christine could hardly keep down the breakfast she was given, eating little before her trip. Even now, in their carriage, the bumps in the road made her stomach threatening to spill its contents. Sleep evaded her like an impish little fox. Her mind wandered in meandering directions and never seemed to stay in one solid path. So much had happened, and her overwhelmed mind certainly did no better for her upset stomach.

She was not one with her body throughout the entirety of that year. Raoul’s proposal had not changed the course of her life as much as she wanted it to. Her papa’s funeral still went on, and she still had to watch him be buried beneath the cold soil. Perhaps, it was a blessing that she had forgotten almost every moment. She adjusted her black veil and then, nothing.

She had injured her head, they had said. A concussion after slipping on some sort of ice and slamming the back of her skull into a tombstone. Though, it was not because of her open wound or concussion that her physician, Dr. Blanchet, was worried. He claimed that she was "hysteria-prone," all of those possibly imbalanced humors and bad vapors clouding her head and body. Christine had her doubts about such things, but she never said so; she was not the doctor, after all. 

Raoul, the kind man he was, cared for her while she recovered. They spoke of their future, their hopes, and their dreams. She came to realize that she was miles behind him when it came to how far beyond Raoul’s visions were.

The wedding made her hesitations, her worries, hardly lessen.

The very sight of the veil had made her stomach twist. It was no different from the black one she wore just a month ago. The maid had not seemed to notice, however, as she had placed it on Christine's head and adjusted it accordingly. With it, she had looked like a real bride.

A real, living bride.

But a real bride would glow and blush, giggling alongside her maids and bridesmaids. Christine — Christine had been pallid and stiff. The circles under her eyes had been puffy and purple. If anything, she had looked horrifically ill.

Dressed and veiled in white, she had looked like a phantom. Her walk down the aisle was no different to the aimless wandering of one. The bouquet of red roses she had held to her chest bloomed from her like a wound. If it had not been for Raoul’s beaming face and the neutral priest, she would have thought this was her own personal purgatory.

Raoul’s hands had been warm but hardly grounding. Marriage vows which they had rehearsed had fallen from his lips, but she could not understand them. Before she had known it, he had finished and it had been her turn. His eyes had glimmered as she spoke. Joy beyond all joys had shimmered in them. But Christine was not a mirror. Every second had been piercing, painful. With each word, it had felt as though she had stabbed both of them in the chest with hundreds upon hundreds of stakes. She had wanted a love that felt sweet as a freshly-bitten pomegranate; a love that would consume her as the ocean would with its strong arms; a love that made her heart flutter.

She tasted nothing. She tasted nothing, and it made her sick to her stomach. It scared her.

She loved Raoul, did she not? Oh, she had to if she married him. She had made vows to him — before _God._ Such things were not taken lightly.

She had looked up at Raoul with wide eyes. Her fiancé — _husband —_ had beamed at her with such passion. His hand had been gentle as he had cupped her cheek and leaned forward. Her eyes had closed before his lips touched hers.

Christine was now a married woman, and she did not know whether to laugh or cry.

But even then, even if she had her… _Hesitations,_ she would ensure that she would be the best vicomtesse she could be. She would perform the wifely duties expected of her with firm confidence.

It was what Raoul deserved.

And now, she was going to put those thoughts to the test. Throughout the carriage ride, Raoul had described the manor with a cold fondness. His rose-colored glasses were faded but still retained a faint pink hue. A castle-like structure, fine horses and carriages, paintings that would make Caravaggio blush… It all sounded enchanting. But — there was always a but — it was lonely. Fine tea gowns his female family members owned grew dusty from lack of use; carriages often left the manor rather than enter it.

How isolated was his childhood? Summers by the sea were one thing, but to spend the rest of the year with no one else but your governess and much older siblings? Such a thought left a bad taste in her mouth.

Well, he would be isolated no longer. She would fill the cracks which had been left to fester by the de Chagnys of the past. And… And if they had children, she would ensure they would not spend a day feeling apart from the world around them. She was sure of that.

Their carriage finally came to a halt in front of a large piece of land, centered with a slightly smaller, but just as grand, mansion. A large, black gate loomed over them. It squeaked open as they passed through. Christine’s breath left her as she studied the grounds, suddenly feeling much smaller and much poorer than her husband.

The de Chagny Manor was about thirty-seven years old, having been built by Raoul’s grandfather in 1835. It rested at the outer edge of Bordeaux and took at least an hour to get back into the center of the city. The field of grass that led to the entrance made the walk to and from the gate a daunting task, but those who visited the manor found themselves too distracted by the lovely nature around them that they could not care as much. Of course, this lovely walk was always ruined in the winter — snow fell the heaviest there, and the sky turned to a depressing grey.

The manor itself was towering, a reminder to its guests and inhabitants that it was always superior to that of mortal flesh. It was a power that was faded and old but certainly never questioned. Dozens of large windows loomed over you, looking on like great, unblinking eyes. The bricks which had made the manor a warm shade of brown had greyed from the snow that piled upon the different parts of the arch. Several, small spires stuck from the roof like many stakes. They had thinned over the year, giving them an odd, skeletal appearance. Dark grey smoke swirled from the chimney, fading off into the cloudy sky. It was as if she were looking upon an enlarged daguerreotype. It would make Dickens and his soot-covered London obsession giddy.

The stagecoach opened the carriage door for them. The sharp, cold air slapped her and sent a shiver throughout her bones. She removed a hand from her muff and tugged her cloak closer to her body. 

“Why didn’t we stop closer to the entrance?”

She turned to her husband, who appeared to be interrogating the stagecoach. The man stayed neutral despite Raoul’s furrowed brow. “The snow is too thick, Monsieur le Vicomte. The wheels can’t get through it.”

“Surely —”

“Raoul.” Her voice grounded him, made him aware of the world around him. “It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want to have you walking through all of this _snow…”_ he huffed

She gave him a lopsided grin. “It’s just some snow. I’ve been through worse.”

He hesitated. Several thoughts appeared to have crossed his mind before he spoke, “Hold my arm.”

She conceded, already quite used to the close proximity she would now have to share with her husband. They began walking, shivering with their pink-tipped noses and rosy cheeks. As the wind brushed against their faces, Christine’s bonnet threatened to fly off into the sky.

A sharp whistle sliced itself against her eardrum. She winced.

Christine spun around, looking out at the vast, white landscape. 

Nothing.

“Christine?” She turned back to her husband. His brow was furrowed, the concern clear across his face.

“I…” she hesitated. Her ear still tingled. Curiosity and confusion formed a box for Pandora to open. She smiled. “I'm coming."

“Good. Come, I’m anxious to show you the inside.”

They trudged through the snow and finally reached the large, black double doors. A footman stood at the door, having already opened it the moment they neared. Raoul halted and turned to face Christine. He grasped both of her hands.

“I believe,” he said, grinning, “it is customary for the groom to carry his bride over the threshold, yes?”

“Raoul, you don’t have to —”

In one swoop, he lifted a giggling Christine off of her feet. “Now, now, Lotte! I wouldn’t want any spirits to steal away my bride!”

“Raoul, _please!”_ She laughed.

He ran through the entrance and spun her around, both of them cackling like children as he did so. He then let her down gently as the wind would guide a flower petal to water. His eyes met hers, and he studied her with a deep reverence that made Christine’s heart flutter.

_Awfully affectionate for a marriage of convenience._

“I’ve wanted this for so long, Lotte,” he whispered.

Her eyelashes fluttered as she opened her mouth to answer. 

A couple of footmen hurried past them, carrying the couples’ suitcases in their large hands. Reality had decided to intervene. Raoul quickly recomposed and smiled. “I believe it’s time for you to turn around and see your future, yes?”

Christine nodded excitedly. Her fingertips buzzed with anticipation which spread throughout her limbs.

_Her future._

Raoul grinned and squeezed her shoulder. “Cover your eyes, Lotte.”

“Really, Raoul?” She gave him a skeptical look.

“It will make it all more fun! Please?”

Christine rolled her eyes but kept a small smirk. She closed her eyes and covered them with her hands. Raoul chuckled, grasping her shoulders and squeezing them. In a soft count of three, he spun her around.

She opened her eyes and gasped, knowing not if it was a sense of dread or admiration.

The interior was beautiful, yes, but it was dull. No light leaked through the many windows. It was all greys and faded browns. The once shimmering chandelier no longer glowed and appeared to have a thin layer of dust. To their left, the grand staircase curled around the walls of the house dizzyingly. The dozens of golden-framed portraits and tapestries that adorned the walls brought the most contrast to the mostly dull manor. Despite the closed doors and windows, the manor felt colder on the inside than out.

“I realize how dreary it all looks. With my moving and only my brother and the servants residing in the house, we thought it unreasonable to waste extra money to keep up such an empty home.” Raoul turned his head to her with a grin. “But I promise you, we’ll make it beautiful!”

She returned a hesitant smile. “I’m sure we will.”

“Come,” he said, taking her hands, “let’s go start that fire.”

He guided her to the drawing-room and gestured to a velvet loveseat. A click of his fingers and a servant had appeared from nowhere, already starting a fire. “There we go! Now, while you warm up, I’ll be right back.”

Christine nodded weakly. Something in her stomach twisted.

The servant finished stoking the growing fire and nodded to her. 

“T — Thank you, monsieur,” she whispered.

“Is there anything else you need?” The servant’s voice was monotone. It was a rehearsed line, something he said often.

“H — Have you any tea?”

He nodded.

She glanced back and forth; admittedly, she was not expecting so much one-sided talk. “Well, it would be nice if you made my husband and me two cups, if possible.”

“What flavor would please the lady?”

“Oh!” She pursed her lips and thought for a moment. Then, she faced him again and smiled. “Surprise me.”

It was the servant’s turn to be surprised. He blinked at her before nodding slowly. “Of course, Madame.”

He hurried off before she could tell him to simply call her Christine. She sighed and leaned back against the cushion. Tugging her hands out of her muff, she put it to the side and began unpinning her bonnet. She ran her fingers over the fake flowers that circled the back of her bonnet.

The clock ticked incessantly. She tapped her finger to the beat, reminded of her papa’s old, beaten metronome. It was one of the only things she could bring herself to keep.

The wood creaked. There was a noise — something that was strangled, caught between a groan and a keen. Pained. Christine’s eyes flicked to the corner of the ceiling as her breath seized. Her hands clutched her chest as her heartbeat stuttered.

The floorboards creaked nearby. She looked from the ceiling to the end of the hallway. Nothing.

And yet the creaking of floorboards grew louder and louder, closer and closer. Christine’s chest rose and fell erratically as she pushed herself from the loveseat. She began backing up and felt the blistering heat of the fire sinking through her skirts. Her skin prickled as her heart rose to her throat. A scream tickled in her vocal cords and tried to claw its way out of her mouth. Her mouth fell open and —

“Lotte?”

Christine screamed. She slammed herself into the fireplace, her hands barely stopping her from falling into the flames. The brick was warm, biting.

Raoul rushed towards her and grasped her shoulders. He pulled her from the fireplace. She was pressed against his chest, his arms squeezing her to the point of suffocation. Christine could not help herself; a sob fell from her throat as her fingers dug into his jacket.

“Good God, you’re shivering like a leaf. What on Earth happened?”

His voice barely grounded her back into reality. The adrenaline that ran through her veins had embedded itself into her nerves. 

“I —” her throat was so dry, “I heard something in the ceiling — the — the walls.”

“Oh, Lotte,” he murmured, stroking her cheek, “it was only the pipes. They often groan.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Are you sure? It was —”

It was too human.

“I’m sure,” Raoul finished, “I lived with them for quite a while.”

"I'm sorry, you must think me so overdramatic," she whispered.

He shook his head. "Not at all. You’re a young woman in a new situation, a new city, and a new house. I would be as jumpy if I were you.”

The servant returned to the drawing-room with tea, but Raoul shooed him off. Gently, he guided her back to the loveseat and sat down beside her. His fingers ran through her ruined bun. He whispered sweet things to her: stories of their time in Perros-Guirec, details of the salty air that constantly surrounded them, and the odd squawks of gannets flying by. Her breath slowed and fell back into a normal pace.

In the blink of an eye, a bell rang. 

Christine pushed Raoul back, her limbs feeling as though they were drowned in thick, sweet molasses. Her eyelids felt just as heavy — like dewdrops upon delicate blades of grass.

“It appears,” Raoul murmured, his voice husky with sleep, “that dinner is ready.”

“Is it that late already?” Christine asked. The windows were covered by thick curtains that allowed no sky to peek through.

“Apparently so,” he said with a smirk.

Christine felt like an intruder as Raoul guided her through the long, winding halls of the manor. The eyes of the many different figures in the manor’s paintings seemed to follow her with their dead stares and neutral faces. One particular painting caught her eye: Iphigenia dressed in pure white with a thin piece of cloth blinding her. Her expression was difficult to interpret, with her face seeming to barely react to the blade that pierced her back — shock, perhaps. Behind her were the emotionless soldiers and her solemn father. What made her heart twist tighter was the sight of Achilles and Iphigenia’s two maids sobbing in terror, just as unaware of King Agamemnon's betrayal as his daughter.

Raoul noticed her staring and hummed. _“Princess Iphigenia at Aulis._ It was commissioned by my grandfather.”

“It’s beautiful.”

_It’s heartbreaking._

She decided to keep her eyes forward after that.

Eventually, they reached a warmly lit dining room. The interior designer had forgone any paintings in the room, instead going for a few detailed tapestries. The carpet beneath her feet was worn down, and the chandelier above them had faded similarly to its cousin in the vestibule. Two glasses and sets of silverware had been delicately placed over a clothed dining table. Three chairs were placed at the mahogany table; one for her, one for Raoul, and one for… 

“Where is your brother?” She asked, keeping her eyes on the third chair. “You mentioned him, didn’t you?”

He hummed and looked beyond the dining room. "I assume he retired early to give us some privacy."

“Oh.”

If Raoul was the Sun, Philippe de Chagny was the moon. Christine had only met the man once, but that was enough for her to know that the man was a somber man — one who never seemed to smile. His blonde hair was slowly turning white, as well as his thick mustache and sideburns. A curious man. A dull man.

“Well,” she added, “that’s kind of him.”

Raoul sat adjacent to her and snapped his fingers. A servant appeared with a bottle of wine and poured the red liquid into each of their glasses. He left as quickly as he appeared.

Her husband glanced up from his glass and barely furrowed his brows. “You aren’t cold, are you?”

“Ah —” she placed a hand on her cloak. “No, I’m fine.”

The flames had not penetrated the cold which covered her body. Her cloak was a protective shield; a foolish hope that it would keep her from whatever harm could come.

“You’ll tell me if you’re uncomfortable at all, won’t you?”

She smiled weakly. “Of course.”

“I’m sorry if I’m acting too… Overbearing,” Raoul said with a sighing laugh, “it’s your first night and dinner here, and I just want to be sure that everything is alright.”

Christine reached over the table and squeezed his hand. “I couldn’t care less if my first night was awful or wonderful,” she chuckled, "we have thousands of other nights to spend.”

“We will, won’t we?”

Two servants entered the dining room, and Christine quickly placed her hand by her side. The duo placed two dishes of fine meat and soup before them.

Once the servants had left, Raoul lifted his glass. “To our future?”

Christine raised her own. “To our future.”

The wine was sweet and rich. It had been so long since she had alcohol; it was an odd experience to have it once more. She felt her mind buzzing.

Silence fell upon them like a weighted blanket. Despite the obvious signs of servants, they made little noise at all. The house echoed everything, from the groans of pipes to the brush of wind — yet not a single voice or a laugh could be heard.

“I can see why you moved from here,” Christine murmured, shivering despite the warmth.

He cocked his head. “Whatever do you mean, Lotte?”

“It’s so lonely!” She chuckled. “Even with the servants, everything feels so… _Empty,”_ she paused, her eyes watching as placed his fork back on the table, “you have more family who live nearby, don’t you? You said this was your family home, yes?”

Raoul’s lips pursed. “Ah, there’s the rub. Yes, it’s my family home, but it’s a hollow shell of what it truly is now. My family —”

Christine felt a cold air surrounding them. She clenched the arms of her chair.

“My parents and siblings are gone; all leaving over the years.”

“Oh, Raoul, I hadn’t meant — I’m so sorry —”

He held up a hand. “Don’t. You were only curious, Lotte.”

“And I still am,” she admitted softly, “m — may I ask… What happened to them?”

He clicked his tongue. “My mother died of illness when I reached teenhood in the Fifties; my father several years after. My oldest sister passed away from a similar illness as my mother in the late Forties. The second married an arms dealer and moved to America; we lost contact with her soon after,” Raoul sighed and took a sip of wine.

“And Philippe…” Christine began.

“Obviously, he’s still alive. Though, he’s not the same. We may share the burden of a destroyed family, but he has certainly suffered more. His wife, Sorelli, died a while back. It was a heavy blow.”

“Oh. Oh God, that’s horrible.”

He nodded grimly, his lips thin. “It is.”

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, shaking her head, “I wish I could have been there for you as you were for me.”

Raoul waved his hand. “I wouldn’t worry about such things now. We can make up for our lost time here together.”

She attempted a smile and nodded. “Of course.”

“But enough about me,” Raoul said, finishing off his drink, “I’ve had my time to mourn.”

The clock rang.

Raoul turned towards it, his smile turning more mischievous as he turned back to her. “It appears that we have been talking for quite a while.”

She leaned over. It was nine P.M. 

“It appears we have,” she whispered.

He stood from his chair and walked over to her, taking her two limp hands. The look he gave her was curious. One might have assumed that it was nothing more than the glance a husband would give his wife every few moments, but Christine knew better. It was a look of longing. The look of a starved man offered a meal but forced to wait a few moments more to consume. 

Christine shivered and looked down at her empty plate. It must have been the alcohol that made her curious to explore that look, to understand it better. There was a reason she barely drank.

She unknowingly and instinctively leaned back.

“It’s been a long journey,” he sighed, “you must be exhausted.”

“A little bit…” she admitted.

He smiled. “Then how about we introduce you to your new bedroom?”

Raoul helped her stand and slowly guided her to her bedroom. 

He wanted her. He saw her as more than an acquaintance or a convenient wife — he saw her as a potential lover. It made her ill; it made her terrified. Was she prepared for such a thing? To burst from her cocoon of purity and fling herself into physical love? She loved Raoul, yes, but to the point of willingness to make love? One year, she had realized the night before, was not long enough to force such a relationship into being. It took time, patience… But lust was rarely patient, was it?

It felt like centuries before they reached her room. It had warm, yellow wallpaper and a fine bed with curtains hung delicately over it. There was a vanity and a closet set against the wall. The vanity repulsed her. It was not that it was hideous or anything, in fact, it was quite lovely. There was just a feeling in her gut, a feeling that urged her to stay far, far away from it. 

Raoul glanced at her. “Is it pleasing?”

“Yes,” she partially-fibbed, “how could I not love it?”

A grin formed across his face. “Wonderful! How about I leave you to change?”

“Will you come back and wish me goodnight?” She asked with a smile.

He snorted as he closed the door. “As you wish, Little Lotte.”

Christine turned from the vanity and began to quickly undress. The mere idea of Raoul walking in on her indecent frightened her to no end. She had finished taking off her gown when something near the door alerted her.

A noise.

Christine’s brows puckered as she turned her head towards the door. She shrugged and continued undressing.

Another noise.

At this point, she seized her work and scurried to the door, pressing her ear to it. The sound was faint, but if she focused enough, it felt as if the sound became clearer — much like a blind person squinting their eyes.

It was yelling; soft, male yelling. 

It was muffled and she could barely understand it, but with the mere sharpness of their tones were venomous. Perhaps, it was normal. She never had siblings, the closest thing being Raoul, so it was not as if she could give a professional opinion.

But she could not help but worry. She did not want even more tension filling the manor; there was already so much that she could feel. 

_A wife doesn’t place herself inbetween her husband’s battles,_ she chided, _pull yourself together, Daaé._

Christine continued her nightly routine, drowning herself in it. At moments, her mind would wander and she would attempt to listen in on the argument — she would then pinch her arm as punishment. Finally, with her bonnet and nightgown on, she covered her lap with the blanket and waited for her husband to return from his verbal war.

Raoul returned after a few more minutes of shouting. He looked haggard, there was no denying that, yet he kept a strained smile on his face. Christine squeezed the quilt in her fists.

“Is everything alright?” She whispered.

Raoul’s eyebrows furrowed for a millisecond before returning to their normal placement. “Of course! Why?”

“I heard you yelling, and I —”

“Oh!” He burst into laughter and shook his head. “You haven’t heard of brotherly arguments, Lotte?”

Her lips thinned. “Well, of course I have, but I — I still worry…”

Raoul’s smile softened as he brushed an escaped coil of hair behind her ear. “You’re wonderful, Lotte.”

“I’m merely concerned,” she brushed off.

"My dear," he said with a new, mischievous grin, "you are going to be the death of me."

She cocked her head. "A pleasant death, I hope?"

"More than pleasant."

Raoul leaned in and pecked her forehead, much to her surprise. It was warm, intimate. He closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aah, sorry this took so long!!! I had a little bit of trouble finishing up the parts I hadn't written for this chapter. I was, however, able to write other parts of the story — mostly fluff and angst.
> 
> There's not a lot I can think of when talking about this chapter. It was one of the first parts I wrote for this story, I'm pretty sure. Oh! And there seems to be something pretty gosh darn wrong with this manor. I wonder what Philippe and Raoul were arguing about *Intense eyes emoji*
> 
> Honestly, the end of this chapter was much shorter, but then some inspiration god tapped my forehead and I was possessed. Now it's way longer!! Oops!!
> 
> Next chapter, we're gonna see a little bit more of the manor and meet a special character :0!!!! Make your bets, ladies, gentlemen, and those of no specific preference.
> 
> Thanks a lot for reading and feel free to comment about anything! It helps fight back my RSD monster, and also I love talking to y'all :D


	4. Foreign Shores

“Little Lotte!?”

Christine spun around, her heart beating rapidly. A blonde-haired man was rushing towards her, his grin larger and brighter than the Sun itself. He skidded to a halt and clasped her arms passionately. She quickly pulled herself away. Such affectionate movements by men, let alone strangers, towards a young lady were beyond indecorous.

“Monsieur, who — who are you?” She attempted to keep her voice low so as to not draw attention. Her appearance alone drew many wandering eyes already.

His face fell. “You don’t recognize me?”

“I…” she hesitated. He certainly had a familiar look to him, but over her nineteen years of life, she had seen many men during her travels. “If you would help spark my memory…”

The hope that had died in his soul sparked back to life as quickly as it had been snuffed out. He cleared his throat and smoothed out his jacket. The man clutched her hand once more. “Mademoiselle, I am the little boy who went into the sea to fetch your scarf!”

She paused for a moment. The faint percussion of waves beating against rocks whispered in her ears. The memories she had kept locked away tumbled forth as the sea did over the sand. A grin spread across her rosy lips.

“Oh, Raoul, I hadn’t recognized you!” Forgetting herself, she grasped his hands. Several people had turned their heads towards the couple, attracted to the loud noises and overly familiar contact the two were making. She turned a deep shade of pink and recoiled from his hands. “Apologies,” she mumbled.

He had turned into quite the handsome man, sporting a face any young woman would fall for. The baby fat that once clung to his skin was gone — replaced with careful angles and perfectly carved cheekbones — as age often did to men. 

Raoul began to speak when her papa appeared beside her. She certainly was not as small compared to him anymore; nor was Raoul. Twelve years changed much in people — physically _and_ mentally.

“Well, if it isn’t the savior of scarves,” her papa laughed. Any hesitancy Raoul might have felt towards him faded in an instant — her papa’s laugh had that effect on people. The larger man hugged him and gave him a hearty pat on the back. “What have you been doing all of these years?”

He chuckled. “I should be asking _you_ that. I’ve been in Paris for a while now. What’s led _you_ here?”

“We… Wanted to settle down,” she answered.

Her papa wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “A nineteen-year-old woman should enter the world by now, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose,” Raoul replied, “I should have seen you sooner; if you had told me, I would have planned a ball or dinner party for her.”

“Oh! Goodness, no,” she interjected, waving her hands fervently.

He waved her off. "You deserve something like that. Your entering of society would be as grand as a Roman emperor's triumph if I could do such a thing."

"As yours was?" She asked sarcastically, arching an eyebrow.

"Unfortunately," he sighed dramatically, "men like your father and I do not get such luxuries when we come of age. Nothing too entertaining happens compared to debutantes like you."

"'Debutante!'" She snorted, concealing her growing giggles and obnoxious grin with her fan. 

Raoul arched an eyebrow. "Is there something wrong with what I've said, Mademoiselle Daaé?"

"Oh, no —" she sighed away her remaining laughter and shut her fan, "it's just that… Well, 'debutante' is such a fancy word to describe me. It feels wrong to use it."

“Does it?” He asked with a new understanding grin. “Then what, pray tell, should we call you?”

“Anything but ‘debutante,’” she answered with a grin of her own.

A man approached her papa and whispered in his ear. With a sigh, her papa rolled his eyes and thanked the man before turning back to the younger of his group. “It seems,” he began with a huff, “that I am needed to entertain the guests. If you don’t mind, Monsieur le Vicomte…”

“Oh, please, go on!” Raoul exclaimed. “I’d love to hear your beautiful music once more.”

Her papa nodded and rushed over to the band, greeting each of them as he arrived. Raoul turned back to Christine with a playful look in his eyes. “I’m assuming your father wouldn’t want a _debutante_ such as yourself being with a young man without a chaperone?”

“Oh,” she said dramatically, placing her hand upon her bosom, “it would be so very offensive, Monsieur le Vicomte. Completely out of the question!”

“But what about a young man who he has a slight bias towards? Would he allow such a man to dance with his lovely daughter?” He asked, arching a perfectly carved eyebrow. Several women and men had begun to dance together, gliding across the ballroom with the grace of a swallow.

She hummed and pursed her lips. “I suppose he wouldn’t mind _that_ much.”

“Ah! Wonderful!” 

Raoul held out his hand with a confident grin. Delicate, shaking fingers gently touched his outstretched palm. He grasped it and guided her to the center of the ballroom. She had assumed that dancing with Raoul would be a breeze, but as he guided her to the center, the action made her legs into weak glass. His arm carefully wrapped around her waist and his other hand grasped her own. Her breath quickened.

“Raoul, I can’t dance,” she blurted out.

“Nonsense,” he dismissed, “everyone can dance. Some are simply more graceful than others.”

She chewed her lip. “I’ll step all over your feet.”

“A small price to pay for your mere presence,” he replied with a smile.

Her papa’s violin hummed as sweeping music spread across the ballroom. A gloved hand placed itself on the curve of her back, halting Christine’s breath. He gave her one more smile. 

“Just keep your focus on me,” he whispered, “I’ll guide you.”

And the dance began.

He glided her across the room with the simple yet graceful steps. There was confidence in his, but of course there was. He had learned and danced the waltz thousands of times; it was perfectly expected for him to be firm in each of his movements. But Christine… She had not a single clue what she was doing. Her feet stumbled over themselves, and each spin caught her off guard and took her breath away in a less than positive manner.

The other dancers became blurs as her mind grew dizzy. The room spun around her as wildly as quickly as whirligigs tumbling from a maple tree. She feared that her feet might give way beneath her, and she would completely embarrass herself and Raoul. Oh God, that would be dreadful.

Lady Luck must have been glancing her way, however, as a man interrupted their dance with a simple clearing of the throat. He had a dour expression upon his face despite the joy everyone else possessed and spread across the ballroom. It was as if he _repelled_ such energy. Raoul made no notice of it as he grinned and separated from Christine. He patted the man’s back.

"Philippe! You remember Christine, don't you?"

The older man's eyes scanned her up and down. "The girl who lived near our aunt? Yes, I recall her."

His voice betrayed his lack of interest.

Christine hastily curtsied and bowed her head. "It's a pleasure to meet you face-to-face, Messieur le Comte."

"Likewise," he replied. The Comte cleared his throat and turned to Raoul. "Come, there are some guests I would like you to meet.”

Raoul frowned. “Must we? Lotte and I have only just —”

“You will have thousands of other chances to speak to her.” He rolled his eyes. “Some baron is quite determined for you to greet his daughter and I shan’t go through another moment of his incessant begs.”

"Then go and reject his offers!" The younger man retorted. "It isn't as if he supersedes you in title."

Philippe groaned, which Christine flinched at. She was trapped between the crossfire of two brothers, and she might have reason to claim it was the worst experience she had ever been through.

"Raoul, you haven't been in contact with me for several months because of your dallying in Paris. The _least_ you could do to make up for it is to just do what I say for once."

Raoul’s lips parted as his argument died at his lips. "Right," he murmured. Slowly, he turned his head to face her. Hesitancy lingered in his eyes as he met her dazed eyes with an apologetic smile. She felt a pressure squeeze her hand. “I’m glad I've gotten to see you again, Little Lotte.”

“As am I,” she whispered. She had found her voice too late.

His lips pecked her hand.

Christine’s eyes fluttered open. She was in a bed that did not belong to her. A cold bed.

She rolled onto her back and found herself longing for the usual blinding Sun that would leak through her window. Her _old_ window. Such a concept was so odd — to refer to the home she and her papa once occupied as “old.” The de Chagny manor was _not_ her home and yet it still persisted to attempt in doing so.

Christine twisted herself out of her bed. Cold air stuck to her skin like a layer of sweat. The warmth she had hoped would linger from her heavy blankets had been torn away so cruelly. She padded her way to her dresser and peeled off her nightgown. The cold fully embraced her as Hades would Persephone at the beginning of winter; an unpleasant, unwelcome feeling that made her long for Demeter's warm caresses. Even in the winter, her old home had a sense of warmth that the manor greatly lacked.

Hastily, she began to dawn her undergarments.

The new corsets Raoul had happily bought for her truly were better, much to the chagrin of her past-self who had complained the entire time. They felt much more comfortable around her — perfectly fit for her bigger waist and breasts. The old corset she had worn was, goodness, at least five years old. Her body had greatly changed since then, but she and her Papa never had enough money to buy a new one. When Raoul had begun to financially support them, she never bothered to mention such things, especially those things that were intimate.

But now, as his wife, her intimate business was his as well. Old, torn chemises and drawers were discarded and replaced with finer underwear. Her single corset was replaced with three, carefully made corsets. And the dresses… Good lord, the dresses.

She would avoid wearing any of the other fine gowns as long as possible, opting to instead tie her wrapper around her waist — she was now rich enough to afford such things, after all.

The added layers and thicker fabric did nothing to warm her, unfortunately. Perhaps she would fill her free time with knitting herself a shawl. Oh, yes — a nice, thick shawl that she could keep over her body like an added layer of armor. Surely Raoul would come with her into the city to retrieve supplies… Or maybe she would request a maid to do it — she was sure the entire household staff needed some fresh air instead of being cooped up in this dusty manor all of the time. Oh, perhaps she could bring a maid _with_ her…

Knocking interrupted her shawl-filled fantasies. "Vicomtesse?"

Christine frowned. Slow, she approached the door and opened it, meeting face-to-face with a small maid. She looked terrified at the sight of her. "Is something wrong?"

"No! No, Vicomtesse. The Vicomte sent me to wake you and get… You… Dressed…" Her eyes traveled up and down Christine's form. "Which you already are."

"Was I supposed to wait?" A genuine question.

She flushed. "Well, normally, but, uh, it isn't necessary. Anyway, the, ah, Comte and your husband should be dining by now. Would you like me to…?" 

The maid wrung her hands desperately. Comparing her to the servant she had interacted with just the day before, it seemed that the manor staff was quite socially awkward. Had it truly been that long since someone had visited them or was it a case of coincidence?

"To guide me?" Christine finished. She attempted to grow her smile to warm the cold energy between them. "That would be wonderful."

Her attempts to create conversation with the maid as they walked felt fruitless. She wanted there to be a sense of friendship, let alone acquaintanceship, between her and the staff — she was the new lady of the house, after all. Yet, it was as if everyone she encountered put up some invisible barrier between them to prevent a single dollop of true, social interaction.

Had she done something wrong the moment she arrived? Surely her initial reaction to the manner had not offended them. Raoul himself agreed with its rather dismal state, and she most certainly did not blame any of the servants if that was what they assumed. They were no longer asked or paid to put in as much effort as before. 

But perhaps, as loathsome as it was to acknowledge, they simply did not like her — did not think that she was the one for Raoul, that she was not Vicomtesse material.

Christine felt the butterflies in her stomach flutter with anxiety. No, she needed to ignore that idea, lest she gives away that she had a clue of what went on in the staff's minds. She had her business and they had theirs.

They passed the painting of Iphigenia. In the light of day, it was less foreboding, and yet, her heart still ached at the sight of it. She looked away.

Sunlight peeked through the entrance of the dining room. All of the curtains were pulled back to reveal the grey world outside of the manor. The littlest of sunlight allowed itself in, bringing in enough light for someone to see without any lamps or candles.

Her lips parted at the sight of Philippe. Light filtered through a now-uncovered window and illuminated him a shade as pale as a ghost. He was already fully dressed in dull but fine fabrics and was staring at the wall in front of him with a piercing focus.

A hand clutched the fabric of her shawl. Her stomach turned at the thought of shifting her body. Any sound would break his fine focus.

She had no clue how long she had stood silently waiting, nor did she know how long it had been just the two of them — the maid departed quite a while ago.

"How long are you going to stay standing there?"

Christine blinked and stepped forward. "Oh! I'm sorry."

Philippe inclined his head to face her and frowned. He was talking to her, was he not?

"I didn't want to break your concentration," she rambled, "you looked so deep in thought."

“No, no, I’m alright. You’re alright.” His brows puckered further. “You were very quiet.”

She nodded weakly, fiddling with a loose coil of hair. "I'm sorry."

There was a bout of laughter from the kitchen. Raoul entered the room with a familiar grin. “Lotte! Good morning!”

A smile finally appeared on her stiff face. She bobbed her head in recognition. “Raoul.”

“Why on Earth are you still standing?” He walked across the room and sat in his chair. “You look like a kitten amongst lions.”

She forced herself to sit, flattening the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt. Philippe studied her with a curious stare. Conversation. He must have expected conversation. “Messieur —” She cleared her throat. _“Philippe,_ how have you been faring? We missed you at the wedding.”

“I had business to attend to,” he said dryly.

“Business more important than your brother and his new bride?” Raoul jested.

Philippe rolled his eyes and sipped his coffee. “Unfortunately.”

“I just thought you would come to one of your brother’s most _important_ events in his life,” he sniffed, “like any other good older brother.”

“Well, _like any other good older brother,_ I have to ensure I maintain my position as the breadwinner of this family. Generational wealth won’t run on forever,” Philippe retorted.

Raoul waved his hand dismissively with a mock pout. "You could've taken a _little_ break."

"A 'little' break was something like this," he replied as he stood, "not a day's worth of traveling to and from Paris. Now, if you'll excuse me, I shall leave you be.”

“More business to attend to?” Raoul called out. Philippe did not answer, leaving only his back to them. He huffed and turned to Christine. “Killjoy.”

Christine attempted to smile and cocked her head. “Do you two often banter?”

He shrugged. “We try to.”

The man failed to elaborate. Christine gently tapped her fingers against the table to fill the silence of her mind. Had she forgotten how to speak so easily? They had known each other for so long — was it possible for two people to run out of things to speak about?

Raoul took a bite of egg. “I’ve arranged to have you meet the manor’s staff today.”

“Oh.” Yes, that would have to happen eventually.

“They’re rather pleasant people if you’re wondering. Silent, obedient as any good servant should be.”

She twisted her fork in her fingers. “That’s… Pleasant.”

“I will admit, however, that I don’t know them as well. Many, practically all of them, are rather new.”

“What happened to the others?” She frowned.

“Left.”

“All of them?” She asked skeptically. “Not one stayed?”

Raoul’s lips thinned. “Well, one of them did. You’ll meet him later.”

She barely ate, finding her appetite to be long gone. Together, she and Raoul left the dining room and walked down the desolate halls. He linked arms with hers as they did so. The contact felt foreign, sending numb tingling against her clothed flesh. She took a deep breath. Raoul seemed to always initiate physical affection — and for what point? It was not as if they could convince anyone in the manor that this relationship was not more than a farce… Well, at least, she would not be able to. Raoul, from what she could tell, had always been a great actor.

Once they reached the foyer, a short woman with mousy hair approached Raoul with her hand clasped in front of her. “Everyone is accounted for, Monsieur le Comte.”

“Good, good,” he replied with a subdued smile. He turned to Christine. “Lotte, this is our staff.”

They all curtsied and bowed simultaneously, expressions all neutral. There were twenty of them from what she could count; a seemingly large amount for a family of two.

_Three,_ she corrected, _you are a de Chagny now._

The sea of faces was a spectrum of color, from skin as light as porcelain to a warm tone like her papa’s. They all wore similar uniforms that lacked a sense of individuality and kept their hair either trimmed close to their head or tied in a bun. Raoul introduced them one by one and overwhelmed Christine with the number of names she would have to memorize. There were Zacharie the butler, Ariane the housekeeper, Fremont the valet, and —

“This is Elizabeth,” Raoul announced, gesturing to a short woman with mousy hair, “she will be your personal maid. Everything you need she will attend to."

The maid bowed her head. “It’s wonderful to meet you, madame.”

“And you, too,” Christine murmured.

She glanced at Raoul to avoid the awkward yet terrifying gaze of Elizabeth and the rest of the staff. His eyebrows were furrowed as he tilted his head and stood on his toes. "Is something wrong?"

"Where is Nadir?" He said and answered coincidentally. "He's supposed to be here."

“Assumably somewhere outside,” Zacharie answered.

“I last saw him in the garden,” a maid said — Natalie, if Christine remembered.

Raoul groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Of course. Of course.”

Her lips thinned as she fumbled with her hands. _Like a kitten amongst lions._

An arm wrapped around her shoulder. Raoul looked at her with a grin. “I suppose we’ll have to take a short walk.”

Her smile was weak. “Wonderful.”

* * *

The grass was dead and faded. The stone path was in a similar state, worn from the constant walking and the rough winter weather. Fields, where flowers would have been grown, were left abandoned. An idea popped into her mind.

"Perhaps I could plant flowers in the front yard and the garden once spring arrives?" It would add _some_ life back into the manor.

Raoul smiled. "That sounds lovely."

His focus was torn from her and turned to a surprisingly fine-dressed man reading. A ring of keys at his hip clinked with each step. Raoul called out to him with a curious cheerfulness that he lacked with the other staff. He guided her to the now still man with pride — not unlike a child parading around their new toy.

"There you are, Khan! I've been looking for you!" Another surprising thing was Raoul heartily patting the man on the back. With such familiarity, she might assume that he had known this Khan since boyhood. "Where were you? I had hoped you wanted to meet my new wife."

She winced at the title but kept her smile.

The man frowned. "I did. Was I supposed to gather with the others this morning?"

"I told the staff to tell you — I _assumed_ they did," he huffed, "you all would gather in the foyer at eight o'clock sharp, and I would introduce you."

"Well, then I apologize," he said before bowing, "no one had told me."

Raoul shrugged, seeming not at all affected by the man's previous comment. "We must let bygones be bygones, I suppose." He turned to her and gestured to the man. "Lotte, this is Messieur Khan."

He winced at the title. Curious.

He appeared to be of South Asian descent with russet skin, a broad nose, and a fine, strong nose bridge. His deep brown hair was lined with lovely silvers that shimmered in the cloudy sunlight. His eyes felt warm, welcoming, as did his smile.

"Christine Daaé — ah — de Chagny," she stuttered.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Vicomtesse,” he said, taking her hand in his and pecking the top of it. She noticed how his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

“The pleasure is all mine, messieur.”

Raoul smiled and placed an arm around Christine’s waist. "Messieur Khan is the groundskeeper here — has been for years. He is the one you will see if you need guidance or the keys to any rooms.”

Christine turned to her husband. “Would it be alright if I had my own copy of keys? I think it would be much easier than to have to seek out —”

“You needn’t do that,” Raoul interrupted, “There are many unnecessary rooms here. You could get lost. With your curious mind, I wouldn’t doubt it.”

She smiled weakly. “Yes, but I _am_ the lady of the house, am I not? I feel it is necessary to at least have _some_ access, no?”

"If you wouldn't mind my butting in," Messieur Khan began, "it _is_ wise for the Vicomtesse to have free reign over the manor, especially if she is expected to perform her duties."

Her husband nodded with a thin-lipped smile. "It appears I am outnumbered." With a sigh, he raised his hands in defeat. "I will see it done."

"Thank you, Raoul." Christine embraced him.

"Only for you, Lotte."

They left the Persian arm-in-arm. Something heavy and cold rested in her stomach and pulled her down. Entering the manor did no better for her as she watched the icy stares of passing maids. The evening's tangerine quilt had covered the sky and was stroked with nighttime's paintbrush. Faint stars sprinkled the sky like snow falling from the Heavens. Whether it was a welcome sight, Christine did not know for sure. Her senses seemed so much sharper in the night sky.

She fought back a roaring yawn and cupped her hands over her mouth. Raoul's hand pressed against her back. "You are tired?"

"Only a little," she confessed.

He nodded and took both of her hands. They led her to the kitchen where several maids were washing and drying dishes. With the clearing of his throat, all of their attention turned to him.

"Elizabeth?" He called.

The maid with mousy hair — the one whom Raoul had said was her personal maid, Christine remembered — lifted her head. "Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte?"

"See to it that the Vicomtesse gets a bath. She's had quite the day."

"Yes, sir." Elizabeth dried her hands on a ragged towel and stepped past the duo. She stood beside the door. "Follow me, madame."

They walked through the darkening halls. A servant trailed behind them lighting the lamps. Christine made sure to look behind her every few moments.

The bathroom was lined in marble. Everything was carefully carved and some parts were even lined with what appeared to be gold. If she had not known any better, she would have assumed it was created for the Palace of Versaille itself. Opulent people liked opulent things, she supposed.

Like the rest of the manor, of course, the bathroom had faded. The gold no longer shimmered as it once had. The mirror had aging spots on its exterior that were a warm brown. Christine ran a finger over one of them and flinched as her skin made contact with the thin layer of dust. Selfishly, she hoped that the maids and servants finished dusting up soon — the feeling of dust made her skin crawl.

The rush of water echoed throughout the bathroom and filled the tub. Christine closed her eyes as she listened, slowly undoing the buttons of her gown and sliding it off of her body. Next were her petticoats and crinoline until she was left only unlacing her corset. 

"Here, let me do that." 

The maid began unlacing the rest of her corset without giving Christine the chance to say a word. Would she have to do anything ever again? The maid seemed quite willing to undress her without any hesitations. Would she be bathed by her as well? Dressed by her? Fed by her? 

"You're only my maid," she said without a second thought, "you don't need to act as my nanny."

The sense of pride she felt when the maid smiled was halted by the sound of a foreign laugh — a weak laugh. 

The maid did not acknowledge it.

"Did you hear that?" She asked.

"Hear what, Madame?"

“The — The laugh…” she mumbled, “it was clear as day.”

The maid shrugged. “If there was anything, it was probably the pipes. Your husband must have mentioned them.”

“He has.”

She said nothing more on the matter. The maid peeled Christine’s corset from her waist and held it to her chest. “Do you need help with anything else?”

“No,” she whispered, “you may go. Thank you.”

The maid turned but hesitated at the door. She glanced at Christine. “If you’re embarrassed about the pipes, don’t be. Plenty of the other household staff was just as jumpy as you.”

"And you?"

Her lips thinned. "One grows used to these things after a while. I was the same as everyone else."

"Thank you, Elizabeth — once again," she murmured.

Elizabeth was taken aback by that. She placed a hand on her chest and fiddled with the fabric of her bodice. "It's my job, Vicomtesse."

"Christine," she corrected.

"Christine," Elizabeth repeated, "you ought to take your bath. Good evening."

The door clicked shut. 

As if it were some sort of act of rebellion, Christine threw off her chemise and huffed. It had to be a laugh; it had to be. It was husky and hoarse, yes, but she had as much life experience as anyone else — she knew damn well what a laugh sounded like.

_But remember what the maid said: the pipes,_ some part of her scolded, _they mimic human voices quite well, don't they?_

She shook her head.

No, no, no, it was not pipes. It could not be because pipes did not laugh. They groaned and keened, but they did not laugh.

She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes as she sank her body into the cold water. Her papa used to tell her to focus on the things around her if she was afraid. It did not matter if it was late at night and she was blinded by the moonlight — she simply needed to describe what she heard or felt.

She felt the cold water that rose to her collarbone. She could hear the droplets of water dribbling from the faucet. The room smelled of roses and soap. She felt something rubbing against her legs.

Her eyebrows furrowed.

It was an odd sensation that she was sure was there but was not. It was like gossamer rumbling against her flesh, a substance without substance, a diaphanous cloud. She opened her eyes and met face-to-face with a woman with olive skin, black hair, and piercing eyes. 

Christine screamed and threw herself from the bathtub and landed on the ice-cold marble floor. She crawled across it, pushing open the door, and skidded herself across the wood. Forcing herself to stand, she grabbed the doorknob. It was a battle as something behind the door, something she did not want to see, attempted to keep it open. Her jaw tensed as her muscles burned.

“Close, goddammit!”

One more strong pull and she yanked the door shut. She flicked the lock.

Her heart beat violently in her chest. She heaved as she collapsed against her bed and fell to the floor.

That could not have happened. She could not have possibly seen that. It — It must have been something she ate, something she drank. People… People do not just _appear_ out of nowhere like that. Doors do not force themselves open and fight against you.

She had never truly thought about the prospects of ghosts haunting the manor. With the signs so far, it made a little bit of sense. The odd groans and keening, the laugh, the woman in the tub… 

And yet, she still questioned if such a thing was _logical;_ the science behind it was complicated. For all she knew, it could have been some sort of hallucination — some sort of hysteria that men spoke of. 

_A hallucination that tried to wrestle the door open?_

No, the idea was foolish. It was a gut feeling, an assurance in her mind that what she saw was no illusion. The mind played many games but that was not one of them.

Hurried footsteps approached her bedroom door. There were whispers, though Raoul’s deep voice was most prominent. He sounded annoyed at whoever was near him.

He knocked two times firmly on the door. "Lotte, is everything alright?"

She stiffened and wrapped her arms protectively over her nude body. “I’m indecent!” She yelled.

"Oh." He released a shivering breath. "My question still stands — is everything alright? I heard screaming.

_Say something._

"I'm fine," she squeaked, "it was only a spider."

_Stop lying._

"Do you need someone to kill it?"

She shook her head as if he could see her through the door. "No, no. I've dealt with it."

_Stop lying, goddammit._

“Lotte —”

“Raoul, _please.”_ Adrenaline pounded in her head. Her hands shook violently as she tried to keep her voice steady.

She heard him sigh. "If you say so. Goodnight, Lotte."

"Goodnight," she whispered.

Slowly, she climbed onto her bed and buried herself in her covers. She felt, for lack of a better word, too tired to think any longer, let alone finish her nightly routine. The water that clung to her skin sunk into the bed and left an uncomfortable coldness that she could not bring herself to deal with. She rolled onto her side and stared at the window, knowingly ignoring the soft creaking of the bathroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so late!!! School practically took over my life and I was completely and utterly drowned in it. Term paper y'all, not fun. But I'm back so... Yeehaw!!!
> 
> Another apology for the rambling about clothing in this chapter. If there is one thing I'm incredibly passionate about, it's historical fashion. For example, I will literally try to convince y'all that corsets are not as bad as people make them out to be. Also, completely off-topic, but wrappers /technically/ aren't a thing yet, but they did exist. It was in the 1870s that wrappers were actually popularized. Though if you google 1860s wrappers, there are a few. Since it is the late 1860s, 1867 to be exact, I decided to stretch my historical limits a little.
> 
> And yay!! We finally get to meet Philippe AND Nadir! Both of them are kinda weird dudes... Maybe we should keep an eye on them. And yes, calling Nadir "Messieur Khan" in a time before Persia used surnames was on purpose.
> 
> Finally, we have some intriguing sightings on Christine's end. A laugh? A lady in the tub? Who laughed!? Who is the lady!? Are they the same person? Why did the door try to force itself open? Find out next time on Dragonball Z!
> 
> Thank y'all for reading <3!! Send comments, I like talking to people :0!!!


	5. He Listened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are things in that paper which nobody knows but me, or ever will. Behind that outside pattern, the dim shapes get clearer every day. It is always the same shape, only very numerous. And it is like a woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern. I don’t like it a bit." (The Yellow Wallpaper, Charlotte Perkins Gilman)

_He listened to the bride with a keen fascination. His world had been quite dull as of late, so this woman’s sudden appearance certainly livened things up._

_She walked with heavy yet graceful steps as she walked — a past dancer, perhaps? Her manners were expected, though the “please” and “thank you” she gave her maid was a point in her favor. She appreciated servants; that was good._

_The water seized its flow and a warm scent filled the room._

_Roses._

_He wondered whether she chose it herself or if someone else did — such things could be the smallest indicators of personality._

_The maid finished undressing her. The bride cracked a joke._

_He laughed. It was painful._

_It was inevitable that the bride would notice — he was, admittedly, rather loud — yet, his body was still struck by a cold bolt of lightning as she spoke. Sure, she and the maid would automatically pass it off as something supernatural, as they should, but the possibility of… Well, several things were too much of a risk._

_The maid passed it off as pipes — as if pipes_ laughed — _and left it at that. He could still hear the bride's hesitation with every word she spoke after; even as she thanked her maid — Elizabeth, he had finally realized, because of course the Vicomte would choose her._

_The bride had a keen, curious mind. He liked that._

_The maid left the bride by her lonesome. She approached him which caught his attention for a moment. Two steps forward, and then several that led out of the room. He knew very well what that conniving little maid could be thinking of._

_But that did not matter. The bride was the focus of his attention and thoughts at the moment._

_He could hear the faintest dollop of humming echoing from the bath._ That _made his ears perk up. It was the sort of hum you produced when you wanted no one else to hear you; squeaky and faint._

_Things became worryingly still. Droplets of water and labored breathing. Curious._

_And then —_

_A scream. The sound of bare flesh slamming into solid floor._

_The bride’s heavy breathing grew louder and closer as she entered her bedroom once more._

_He envied the skills of whoever was tricking the bride. They had quite the talent. But it seemed all for naught, as the bride was firm. The bride did not plead — no, she_ demanded.

_“Close, goddammit!” Quite the unladylike comment._

_The door finally did slam shut as expected. The bride's feet padded against the floor. Her bed squeaked as she put her weight on it._

_He focused on her rapid breathing. Adrenaline or genuine fear?_

_She was silent for a long while. Thinking, pondering. Her breath would slow and quicken at intervals of time. He had to admit that her self-control was quite admirable._

_Hurried footsteps and soft whispers approached the bride’s bedroom. The Vicomte angrily shooed away the maids that flocked around him in hungry curiosity. He knocked on the door. “Lotte, is everything alright?_

_She yelled an excuse to dissuade the man from entering the room._

_"I'm fine," she squeaked, "it was only a spider."_

_It was a lie, obviously. Her response was rapid; her voice hesitant, shaky._

_"Do you need someone to kill it?"_

_"No, no. I've dealt with it."_

_“Christine —”_

_Christine._

_A lovely name._

_The bride —_ Christine — _snapped at him._

_He grinned. Brave girl._

_The Vicomte acquiesced; a wise decision given the ferocity in Christine’s voice. He did linger a few moments more, much to his chagrin — he wanted more time alone with this curious bride, this_ Christine. _The soft pattering of steps was a happy sound._

_Christine was very quiet after that. She barely moved, the only sound that indicated anything had happened was the shifting of her mattress. Going to bed so soon? An odd coping mechanism but not a condemning one._

_The bathroom door squeaked._

_Christine did not react to it. She remained as silent and still as a corpse. Had she fallen asleep already? Or was it a purposeful ignorance; her turning a blind eye to the odd reality around her?_

_Hm._

_That was something that he would need to figure out._

_For now, he would keep listening, he would keep waiting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh.


	6. Prying Pandora

Christine awoke with a weight that lingered in her chest. Her dreams were empty, filled with only an intangible warmth. 

Something had sung to her.

It was soft and gentle — like waves on a cool night. It tickled her ear, and more often than not, her consciousness would awaken just enough to rub against the flesh behind the flap of her ear. Despite that, she felt safe, protected. Voices had no physical touch yet she felt the warm embrace of the singer with each note. It was the most pleasant dream she had in quite a while.

_Just like Lotte,_ she thought with a stiff smile, _perhaps I've been sent an angel after all._

The dream-like state shattered as quickly as it had begun. Her stomach twisted and ached. It painfully sunk in whenever it growled. Should not have skipped dinner, then.

She rolled onto her side and stared at the greyed window. Her brows furrowed in frustration. Snow danced from the clouds and spun into the ground.

Of course.

The moment the snow had thinned and melted away, the very next day it would return. She had hoped to go for a walk around the grounds to clear her mind. The dull walls were crushing, threatening to close in on her at any moment. The mere memory of that silent woman and the idea that she could be just around the corner made her feel faint.

_You are never alone._

The phrase repeated itself over and over as she dressed. Never had she felt so exposed while changing. One of her only comforts, the insurance that she would be given privacy during her most intimate moments, had been torn from her violently. What was worse was the fact that she understood little of the situation. Was it a human that had watched her so fiercely? Something beyond the veil of her comprehension?

Was she being watched? Listened to? It was already enough to be scrutinized by the household staff and Philippe while out and about, but the possibility of being watched so sharply in private, behind her back… It gave her a level of paranoia that made her want to scratch and peel off her skin.

_You are never alone._

Thoughts of warm shawls and the outside world no longer held comfort. Shawls could only keep her so warm and the Sun could only stretch so far. She fiddled with the buttons of her wrapper in a fruitless attempt to calm her nerves. Each step down the winding staircase was counted in order to distract her meandering thoughts which oh-so loved to run around like an unruly child.

She smiled, one of relief, and nodded at Elizabeth who had been walking up the stairs to wake her. The maid quickly spun around and hurried to Christine’s side. “Madame —”

“Christine,” she corrected once more, keeping her smile firm.

“You ought to wait for me,” Elizabeth continued, _“I_ am supposed to prepare you for the day.”

She bit her lip. “You really don’t need to. I can take care of myself.”

“I realize this, but you need to understand that you are a lady of high standing now.” Elizabeth was growing miffed as her fists clenched and unclenched.

“And?” Christine felt her smile falter at Elizabeth’s glare. “Have all of my bones shatter? Have I any reason to not be able to dress myself?”

Her cheeks turned a tinge of pink. “No… But as a rich woman — as a _vicomtesse,_ it is seen as _improper_ for you to do such things for yourself.”

Christine’s mouth formed an _O_ as she stared at the railing of the stairs with a piercing focus.

“And,” she continued, “if it is found out that I am not doing my job…”

She whipped around with a face as pale as marble. “They wouldn’t fire you, would they?”

Elizabeth shrugged. _“Well,_ I don’t know for sure, but the Comte would certainly cut my pay.”

"Oh, I wouldn't —"

"Exactly," she interrupted, "so, let me do my job, won't you?"

Christine nodded weakly. She had no hold over the conversation any longer. "Of course."

Elizabeth smiled and shrugged her shoulders before heading back upstairs. Christine hurried down the hall, practically running, and entered the dining room out of breath. Raoul and Philippe sat in their usual positions, both staring at their plates.

She sat at her chair before immediately doing a double-take. A dark purple bruise colored Raoul’s jaw. He noticed her staring and smiled weakly. “Hideous, isn’t it? That, my dear Lotte, is what happens when you accidentally tie your necktie too tight.”

“You bruise your jaw?” She asked.

“You punch your jaw _and then_ bruise it.”

“Like a fool,” Philippe spat.

Both she and Raoul laughed weakly. And then, familiar silence.

After a long moment, it was broken. “We missed you at dinner,” Raoul said.

She chewed at her lip. “I was exhausted from the events of yesterday.”

“And quite startled during your bath,” Philippe added. 

“Yes,” she softly agreed, “I lost my appetite.”

Breakfast was a dull event once more, however, it worsened with the uncomfortable silence laid upon them. There were many things she wanted to say, yet they all fell limp on her tongue as questions attempted to flood out. She needed to say something, but… What would they do? How would they react? It had barely been three days since she had arrived — a bad impression was not what was needed. 

But an answer was a stepping-stone. It would open doors to the many different possibilities of what she had seen that night. Madness, ghosts? Their word would have to indicate _something._

Her fork pierced her eggs and slowly twisted back and forth in her hand. She spoke. "Have you ever seen anything… Odd while living here? Like people or shadowy figures — things that are there yet not."

Raoul's eyes widened. They quickly returned to normal and were replaced with an expression of confusion and concern. "Why, no. Is there a reason?"

Philippe did not answer

"No," she lied, "I don't think so."

"Is it…?" He tapped the back of his head.

The scar draped across the back of her scalp tingled at the silent mention of it. Her lips thinned.

Could it? Possibly. Though, she knew that was not what he meant.

"What does my question have to do with that?"

"Well, Dr. Blanchet did warn of hysteria or some other form of madness that could appear from such trauma to the head. And if you are seeing things…" he trailed off.

Christine felt herself stiffen. The silver of her fork stabbed her skin. It scraped against the plate with a cacophony of screeches. "Are you implying that I'm going mad?"

"No, of course not! I simply wanted to suggest an idea." His voice suddenly sweetened. “What are you planning to do today?”

“Well…” She squared her shoulders. “I planned on wandering the house a bit. It seemed a good idea to familiarize myself with the manor; after all, I need to be responsible as the lady of the house.”

Both brothers seemed pleased at the idea, but a look of hesitancy lingered in their eyes and in their smiles. Raoul nodded and clapped his hands together. “A wonderful idea! Philippe needs some assistance today, so I’m sure one of the staff will happily guide you —”

“I can do it on my own,” she interrupted with a thin smile of her own, “I’ll memorize everything better that way.”

“But you could get lost… I told you; a myriad of unnecessary rooms is bound to get you dizzy.”

She pursed her lips. “I’m not so curious as to get myself in such trouble.”

“Just…” He sighed and shook his head. “At least have Messieur Khan escort you. You took a small liking to him, yes?”

“I suppose, but —”

“Perfect!” He swiftly requested for the man to be sent to Christine. 

As if he were a ghost, Messieur Khan appeared from a distant hall. A small smile played at his lips as his eyes fell upon Christine. “Vicomtesse,” he greeted.

“Good morning,” she murmured — though, it was practically a whisper.

Raoul spoke for the both of them. “You have plenty of time to tour her, don’t you?”

Messieur Khan’s lips thinned. “I believe so, but I won’t know for sure —” 

“I’ll deal with it,” Philippe said, much to everyone’s surprise. After such a long period of silence, it was as if he had completely disappeared.

“No, no, no —” He almost sounded panicked — expected given Messieur Khan’s assumably messy line of work. “Just… Notify me if anything is needed.”

Philippe grunted and nodded vaguely. Messieur Khan’s brows furrowed as he looked to Christine and inclined his head towards the hall. “Shall we?”

She smiled to fill the void. “We shall.”

As she began to follow after him, someone called out her nickname. “Lotte!” Raoul hurried over and touched her shoulder. “Avoid the attic, will you? It’s a cluttered place; I wouldn’t want you to trip on anything.”

She said nothing, tucking that thought into the back of her mind. Christine joined the Persian’s side as he walked ahead. She found that Messieur Khan was a rather amiable man — not very conversational, but when he did speak, it was all pleasantries. She now fully understood why Raoul liked him so much.

The halls were quite repetitive. If anything diversified the walls, it was the few paintings that dotted them every few feet. Christine found herself staring at Messieur Khan more often than not — he was _far_ more interesting.

She licked her lips and cleared her throat. “What was Persia like?”

A warm, nostalgic smile spread across his face. “Very beautiful. Very Green. The architecture is remarkable. I had hoped to bring… My son there one day.”

“Have you lost touch?” She asked delicately.

His smile faltered. “I, ah — No. He’s passed.”

Christine looked away, flushing. She exhaled through her nostrils and nibbled at her lip. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

_You have an awful habit of upsetting grieving people, don’t you?_

“It was several years ago, Vicomtesse. I’ve learned to cope.” He did not sound particularly furious which was… Relieving.

She quickly turned to a random photograph beside them and gestured to it. “What’s this?”

“Oh —” He looked to study it. “A family portrait; a rather early one.”

The photo showed a rather dull-expressioned family in 1840s attire. Raoul and Philippe were the only familiar faces, though much younger. She pursed her lips. “It’s… Lovely.”

Messieur Khan snorted. “You don’t have to lie. They look positively bored; absolutely miserable.”

“I would be, too, if I had to stand still for several seconds without fail,” Christine chuckled.

“Haven’t taken many pictures, I assume?”

She shook her head. “No, monsieur. Only one.” After a moment of silence, she gestured to the older man. “I assume this is the previous Comte?”

“Your assumption is correct,” he answered.

She then pointed to a soft-featured woman with a prominent arched nose. The late Comte had his hand on his shoulder. “Is this the previous Comtesse?”

"Ah, close. It's the oldest daughter —" His eyes turned cold. "Madeleine."

"Raoul mentioned his sisters and what became of them. I don't want to make assumptions or pry, but…" she trailed off, allowing Messieur Khan to fill in the blanks.

"Madeleine was the sister who died of illness. Adelie —" He pointed to the girl beside her in the photo. "— is the one who moved to America."

She hummed and nodded. After Messieur Khan narrowed the women down, it left one more at the opposite side of her husband. She was quite beautiful and had glaring eyes that seemed to judge Christine — despite the late Comtesse's neutral expression. It was as if she were berating Christine and telling her she did not deserve her title or Raoul's hand. The arm wrapped around the toddler Raoul seemed to tighten.

"The late Comtesse was an… Interesting woman. Kind yet cruel simultaneously."

"Did you know her?"

He nodded solemnly. "I knew all of them."

"Oh…" Her heart twisted for him. "It must have been difficult watching them all leave."

"It was certainly a rough path to continue on," he agreed, "but here I am today. I'd like to think I'm doing well enough."

His smile was weak and strained like an exhausted muscle. Christine fiddled with her hands and nodded weakly. "You… Look well enough."

He chuckled. "That hesitation says otherwise. But enough about me — we ought to continue, yes?"

“What more is there to look at?”

_Other than the attic._

Messieur Khan had unlocked all of the doors with his ring of keys, so there was no doubt that the attic would have to be unlocked as well. 

The Persian chuckled. “It seems so, especially since the attic is supposedly off-limits.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” The words flew from her mouth quicker than she could catch them.

His expression dimmed and he shook his head. “I’m afraid it does. I am not one fond of breaking rules too often; I find that the punishment is not worth it. You, however… I’m unsure.”

A confusing statement if there ever was one. “Of course.”

He led back down the halls, rewinding their long journey. Every step away from the trail leading to the attic caused an ache in her chest. They were so close… And Raoul and Philippe were far enough away that they could not possibly know. Sure, a servant might say something, but who would they trust more? Raoul’s familiarity with Messieur Khan gave that answer loud and clear.

Her eyes wandered to his pants. The tinkling of the keys tapping against each other was tempting — tauntingly so.

Maybe if she just —

He spun around. "What are you doing?"

Dammit.

"I don't —" _Think, woman, think._ "I meant to ask. For the keys. I meant to ask for the keys."

His lips curved downwards as he raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe _reaching_ is the same as _asking,_ Vicomtesse."

"It — It isn't. I just — My body moved impulsively before I could voice my request." Her face was burning. No doubt he could see right through her — her face must have been bright red.

He said nothing; instead, he took her hand and dropped the ring of keys into her palm. It was heavy and splattered in freckles of rust.

“I’ll fetch them from your room this evening.”

She remained in a state of stupefaction as she walked down the winding halls. None of what had just happened felt entirely real. It did not make sense — he just… _Casually_ gave her the ring of keys as if they were nothing more than a simple trinket.

Racing up the steps, she felt her face grow hotter and hotter and her heart beating louder and louder. Doubt seeped into her mind like the worst poison. She had every right to be there. It was her own damn home, after all! Not only that, but Messieur Khan willingly gave her the ring of keys. He _wanted_ her to look — or at least, he had some sort of urge to. Something of that sort.

Christine entered several keys into the lock before she finally found one that fit perfectly. The door groaned as she opened it — an awful noise. She winced and glanced behind her. The staircase and hallway remained empty. After a moment of staring, she entered.

As a small girl, she had made the mistake of hearing the tale of Bluebeard. A far too curious wife sneaking around and discovering something truly horrible — only to have her husband learn of her disobedience and attempt to kill her. Quite the curious girl, the story only brought chills down her small spine as a local old man told it. Raoul sat beside her, his eyes agleam, hungry to find out the resolution of such a tale. She squeezed his hand until the tips of his fingers were blue.

Now, she _was_ that wife. That curious woman who hungered for answers like a starved predator. She was now one with the council of women just like her — Psyche, the wife of Lot, Eve, and Pandora. Whether or not she was to be punished… That was up for the future to decide.

If the rest of the manor was dull and damp, the attic was bright and dry. Merely breathing in the dusty air made her nose ache and itch. The window that allowed the faint sunlight in was her only respite from the sense that something in the shadows could wrap its hand around her ankle and drag her in.

She took a step forward and a plank of wood creaked. Christine cursed under her breath and quickly raised her foot to move it somewhere else. She knew that it was impossible for anyone to hear such a thing from the height she was in, but the possibility was always there. Raoul might have only scolded her, but Philippe… She shivered at the mere thought of it.

Each step of hers was gentle. She attempted to put as little weight as possible on her feet in hope that it would prevent any more creaking. Small, fine particles shimmered in the light.

Boxes upon boxes were gathered together, coated in blankets of dust and fabrics. A mint-colored chest rested in front of it all, practically beckoning to her to open it. It contained the usual trinkets a lady of high status would own; gold chains, a brooch made of several sparkling gems, finely made frocks, a perfume with the scent of rose, everything of the sort. Protected beneath the heavy fabrics was a faded painting. That caught Christine’s hungry eye. She pulled it out with the utmost care and studied it.

The gold frame shimmered in the sunlight. On the bottom center, a carefully carved inscription had been placed.

_“Comtesse Sorelli de Chagny.”_

Sorelli was a beautiful woman. Her olive skin appeared to shimmer in the false sunlight of the painting. She seemed kind enough with her soft eyes that crinkled slightly with her warm smile. For Christine, it was instant recognition. The silent woman.

"What do you want from me?" Christine whispered, running her fingers down the frame.

Portraits did not speak, however. She would have to find those answers herself.

There was another image of her. Instead of a painting, however, it was a faded photograph with Sorelli as a blushing bride. She was a vision in white with her large white skirt, laced and flower-covered bodice, and a flowing diaphanous veil. Never had Christine seen such a happy woman. 

She did not know what Raoul had done to their wedding photo. What did know was that she certainly lacked the enviable joy Sorelli contained. Christine could hardly hold her smile, let alone make one. Her expression was miserable.

Christine tucked the photograph back into the chest and continued digging. Beneath more frocks and underclothes, there was a small music box. On the bottom of it was a simple engraving: _“To my dearest rose.”_ Another photograph of Sorelli was inside of it. It was rather intimate with her hair loose and wearing a nightgown of silk.

Christine placed it beside her. She would listen to it later.

A pile of two boxes hid in the very back, covered by moth-eaten shawls and table cloths. Christine pulled them away with ease, coughing as a gust of dust flew in her face. The first box was a decent size. If she had scaled down a typical chest, the box was what she would have envisioned. An iron lock kept it shut tight. No amount of fiddling and shaking would loosen its hold. She lacked any hairpins as well. The feeling of unanswered questions gnawed at her heart.

The second box had no name tied to it. Inside were the same amount of items that the other boxes kept, yet there was something dingy about each one. There were only a few pairs of shoes, each one worn to the point where there were holes in the soles and the fabric near the toes. The clothing was just as awful. It was second-hand, which would not have been curious if it were not for the clear wear and tear each article had. Off-colored stitching covered every piece, and the colors were just as dulled and worn.

One question stood out clearly in her mind: why would such a rich family reuse clothing in such an extreme fashion? 

They would not have kept the child of a servant's clothing. If their father or Philippe had an affair with a maid, the woman would have been kicked out long before the babe's birth. If the maid died from childbirth while under their care, the babe would have been sent to an orphanage. There was no logical reason for these memorabilia to be here.

As she continued to gently dig, her hands made contact with a smooth blanket. It was baby blue, barely faded. It was the only item in the entirety of the box that had not been ravaged. If there was any flaw, it was the loose threads from what appeared to be chewing.

The air around her stank of iron. She wrinkled her nose and pinched it shut. 

Christine lifted and unfolded the blanket from the box. There was a red stain that blotted the fine detail. Christine smiled at the thought of a child who had made a silly mistake as they played or ate messily. Intricately hand-sewn embroidery covered it. It was homemade, it seemed, given the few mistakes the creator had made. Despite that, the creator clearly had put care and effort into it; no one would have dedicated so much for no reason. A gift of love, perhaps. Such an idea made her heart warm.

Her ears perked at the sound of droplets hitting the floor. Curious.

A red droplet landed on the floor in front of her and separated into even tinier drops. Christine’s shaking hand lowered to it. It was warm. At the point of contact, it dissolved.

She slowly looked up to find a face looking down at her, its face shadowed by long, wet strands of hair. Her heart stopped beating. A sensation of sharp pins pierced her veins and left her in a state of shock.

The very beginning of a burst of screams escaped her before they were subdued by the biting of her tongue. Christine threw herself forward, slamming into the several boxes around her. She was desperate as she crawled deeper and deeper into the piles of memories and dust. Her back pressed against the wall.

The figure’s body flickered as it slowly approached the blanket. It bent down with sickening cracks, and it reached out a withered arm. Thin fingers gently wrapped around the fabric — grey against blue.

She could see it gaze down at her. Yellow dots flickered in the dark.

Christine slowly blinked. Her mouth was dry. She could hear nothing but the sound of moths tinkling against the window and furniture. The musty smell of the attic became overwhelming.

She stood on intangible legs. The music box was a solid weight keeping her from seemingly floating into oblivion.

_What did he tell you to do? What did you sing with him during thunderstorms, after nightmares?_

“Little Lotte,” she muttered under her breath.

_Good. Recite that._

A maid caught her walking down the hall. She nodded weakly and kept going with a hurried step.

_Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing._ _Her hair was golden as the sun's rays and… And…_

_Remember, goddammit._

_— And_ _her soul as clear and blue as her eyes._

_Good._

_She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll… Took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but —_

Her lips thinned.

_But what?_

Her fingers trembled against the music box.

_But most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music._

Her heart still rammed against her chest.

_It didn’t work, Papa. What do I do?_

She slammed her door behind her. Her legs shook too violently to will them to sit. She held up the music box to the level of her chest. Her fingers ran over the carvings of the music box, the texture calming her. Gently, she opened the lid and studied the shimmering cylinder and comb. She took the lever and began to wind the machine. A soft, tinkling melody was created, and the smallest of smiles bloomed on her face. "The Jewel Song."

So, Sorelli liked _Faust —_ a shared interest, it seemed.

Christine continued winding as her mind wrapped itself in the delicate melody the music box had sewn.

_Est-ce toi, Marguerite, est-ce toi?_

She began softly humming along, her unused voice opening up just barely. Then, that humming turned to mumbling, and that mumbling turned to singing. The lyrics were flimsy on her lips, and, at moments, she would hum the words instead, but the joy remained.

The box was abandoned. Her memory became the orchestra for her, drowning out everything else but the aria and the hidden art she would create.

She had sung the song many times when she was a girl. It was simplified and lowered for her young voice, but it certainly had not lessened its effect on the crowd. It soon became an audience favorite as she would run around with borrowed, long, pearl necklaces that tickled her ankles and bracelets that threatened to tumble from her tiny wrists. The performance pleased everyone; women enjoyed watching a young girl running around the stage dressed as a proper lady, and men enjoyed the fine violin and singing.

The vision of the cheap, small stage was still as clear as day. She was still the same Christine Daaé who had a father who loved her and a full life just in the distance. The jewelry she had glistened in the light as she glided across. Papa's violin hummed beautifully as her notes rose and fell with each line. It all fell together and formed a beautiful painting of sounds and music and dancing.

Christine finished with a ridiculous grin. She bowed weakly to the wall, imagining for a moment that someone out there was applauding her.

There was an intake of breath nearby; one that was certainly not hers. Christine stiffened and looked around.

"Beautiful."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dropped off of the face of the Earth again... Oops. I suppose that will be our schedule fkjsdjsf? I spam post chapters and then disappear to reenergize and finish/edit chapters. Who knows. It's the ADHD if anyone is wondering 😞 (I am starting a new drug soon so we'll see what happens with that...). Also, I, unfortunately, live in the South, so things have quite literally gone to shit aaa. It is Very Cold and some pipes got screwed, so we have to ration water to avoid accidentally consuming E. coli filled water. Things have been stressful because of that and that really inhibited my creative process sigh. Things will get better, though :>
> 
> So, things have gotten a little more interesting. Huh. We've figured out who the woman in the bathroom was, another creature has entered the fray and there seems to be a certain someone finally deciding to speak to Christine.
> 
> Odd...
> 
> Comments and kudos feed me, the tiny cryptid living in your basement. Tell me how your day has been! Have you somehow entered the Frozen cinematic universe and now live in a completely iced-over Arendelle? Please tell!


	7. The Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.” (A Midsummer Night's Dream, William Shakespeare)

Male. Deep. There was a vague huskiness to it, something that could only come from long moments of disuse. And yet, there was also smoothness to it, like thick velvet, that drew her to it — comforted her, told her everything was alright. It was the voice that had caused Odysseus to fight against his bonds, to dive into the sea, and hear hidden knowledge that only the mythical sirens knew.

_The laugh._

She released a wavering breath that had been held unknowingly. And then, she began to scream.

There was an immediate hush, panicked and quick, and as though a hand had placed itself over her mouth, she stopped. Christine pressed her back against the wall and searched blindly for some sort of weapon. She kept her eyes forward, expecting some sort of fiend to appear from nowhere and do something horrible.

"Who are you? How did you get here?" Christine hissed. "My husband owns a gun — he — he —"

"You need not worry about that," the voice replied coolly, "he could not kill me if he tried."

Another wave of fear and nausea crashed against Christine, leaving her breathless. "Wh — What are you talking about?"

"There are a few… Limitations on what your Vicomte can do to me. They have been around for so long, it would practically be heresy for him to break them."

"'For so long,'" she echoed faintly, "how long have you been here?"

"In a literal sense? Several years, at least," the voice responded nonchalantly.

_Years_.

Her stomach churned. "Can you see me?"

"I can hear your voice."

“That’s not an answer,” Christine snapped.

“On the contrary,” the voice replied, "by definition, it _was_ an answer. You asked for an answer, I gave you one."

"But it didn't answer my _question."_

"But it was an answer."

Christine ground her teeth to prevent yelling out in annoyance. That damned voice — how it could be so nonchalant about everything that occurred was beyond her. “Then answer this and only this: are you a man?”

“I suppose I would fall under that category, yes. Of course, madame, it all depends on your definition of what a ‘man’ is.”

“A human. A living, breathing being.”

“Ah, that’s where it gets complicated. I would hardly call this existence ‘living.’ The person I was before died quite a while ago.”

She felt her stomach drop. “‘Died?’ What in Heaven’s name do you mean?”

“You know very well what dying means, my dear.”

“You’re a ghost.”

The voice hesitated. "Something of that kind."

Christine's legs gave way, and she slid to the floor. She clutched the sides of her head. "I'm going mad… My God, I _am_ going mad."

"I hope not. But it is always a possibility. For all I know, I could be a figment of your imagination."

"Then you wouldn't be aware that you were a figment of my imagination. My mind wouldn't just tell me." Christine's frown deepened.

"Perhaps I'm special, or perhaps your mind is weaving a _truly_ complicated tale."

“I — No, that couldn’t possibly make sense.” She stared blankly at the floor, running a hand through her hair.

“A lot of things have not made sense for you in quite a while,” the voice said, “I do not see why a voice speaking to you is the limit.”

Her lips parted. “I suppose you’re right.” She paused and looked up. With a lack of a physical body to glare at, she glared at the dresser. "How did you know that?"

She imagined the voice tapping his incorporeal head. "I can hear everything that goes on in the manor, my dear. Your outbursts have interested me the most, however."

"Well, 'outbursts' is an awfully dramatic word to use," she muttered.

"It is a rather apt word to use when describing the sudden release of strong emotion, is it not? That is what it seems like to me."

"Ah. Yes, but —" she huffed, "but there is reason behind it and describing it as an outburst just feels negative!"

"Are these not negative experiences?"

"Of course, but, I mean, there is an implied sense of doubt when you just summarize my reactions as sudden releases of emotion." She had no clue what she was talking about at this point, but she was rather interested to see where the conversation would land next.

"I do not _doubt_ you, per se, I am simply just expressing my point of view. Your sudden screaming and gasping sound outburst-like to me."

"Well…" She crossed her arms and huffed. "They're not."

"Right."

The temptation to burst into argument once more grew, but she quickly crushed it. She was more mature than that.

After several moments, however, the silence between them did grow irritating. She may have been mature, but she was also horribly weak-willed.

She spoke. “Monsieur Ghost.”

“Do not call me that.”

She pursed her lips. “Monsieur Ghost, why have you decided to speak to me now if — if you could already hear and understand what was occurring?"

“In all honesty, I had not meant to say anything. Nor did I ever mean to speak to you at all.” He hesitated and sighed. "Your voice caused me to lose myself."

"Do you… Did you enjoy it?" She asked.

_Beautiful. He called it beautiful…_

"'Enjoying' is an understatement. I was practically lavishing in it."

Her face burned. She pressed her palms to the conflagrations that were now her cheeks and nodded. "Thank you…"

"You have potential, my dear, you just simply need to harness it."

"And how do I do that? I'm quite sure the Comte wouldn't be too happy about the _Vicomtesse_ taking singing lessons. He already knows about my papa."

"Then I shall teach you," he suggested nonchalantly.

She arched an eyebrow. "You know music?"

"I would like to say so."

Christine hummed and shifted her body. She nibbled at her lip. "And you would like to… Tutor me?"

"Correct."

"Alright, I suppose that isn't _too_ odd of a request, Monsieur Ghost," she replied, grinning as she imagined the expression the voice would make in response. Perhaps a furrowed brow and a deep frown, with eyes flashing with a glint of something that could only be found in playful annoyance.

“What did I say about calling me that, my dear?” The tone in his voice changed — something deeper, more serious that sent a chill down her spine. Yet, the warmth never left, and Christine could not help but feel a smile.

“Well, I have nothing else to call you, do I? ‘Ghost’ just feels too simple, too discourteous.”

“Ah, you have a point. It appears I have not a name to call you as well.”

Christine’s grin softened. “You may call me Christine.”

Was that a shivering breath? A draft of wind?

“Christine,” he repeated. 

She found herself fond of his way of saying her name.

Christine leaned forward. “And you?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, another.

Then, another.

The voice finally answered, "You need not know, my dear."

She tapped her fingers against the wall, her eyebrows furrowing and forming mountains between them. “If you are afraid or hesitant to answer…”

"No. A name will not be necessary knowledge."

"I must know my teacher's name if I am to address him or ask questions," Christine argued, "besides, if we are to speak more often, it would be simply nice to know."

"If you are so determined, how about you come up with a name yourself?"

She blinked. "Really?"

"Why not?" The voice asked. "You are quite insistent on calling me something."

A name. A name, a name, a name. God, they had barely just met, and there were already so many words she could use to describe this voice. A mystery, an enigma. Scathing yet smooth, sharp-tongued, and witty. But those were so little compared to what he _was._ Names, names built you up, defined who you were. How could she possibly define him?

It was impossible.

"I — May I think on it?" She asked.

"Of course," the voice chuckled, "though, I do not see the reason for taking such a long time to pick a name for such an unimportant ghost."

"You're not unimportant," she protested, "it’s just difficult to define someone when you know so little about them. I would hate to call you something you're not."

"How wise. I like that about you, Madame."

She blushed. "Thank you."

“Are you also trustworthy?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I believe so?”

“I need to ask something of you.”

“Alright.” She smoothed her skirt. “Go ahead.”

“I wish that you do not speak of our conversation to your dear Vicomte.”

Christine wrinkled her nose. “I hadn’t thought to do so. Raoul would never believe me, anyway.”

“I wish that you do not speak of our conversation to your dear Vicomte.”

Christine wrinkled her nose. “I hadn’t thought to do so. Raoul would never believe me, anyway.”

“Yes, but I  _ need  _ you to promise. He cannot know.”

He sounded desperate — scared, even. She pursed her lips and nodded. “Of course.”

“You are a good woman,” he said softly, “thank you.”

“It’s nothing really — just a simple kindness." Despite herself, she blushed once more. He sounded so genuine, so touched — her heartstrings could not help but twist.

A sudden, sharp silence filled the air. “Someone is coming up the stairs.”

Christine frowned. “Pardon?”

“Footsteps,” he reiterated, “Elizabeth’s.”

“Is she coming towards us?”

“I believe so; yes.”

She cursed under her breath. Quickly rushing to her seat, she feigned reading a book that she had bought during her and Raoul’s trip to Bordeaux. Elizabeth, as expected, knocked on her door and entered.

Christine’s lips formed an odd pursed-lipped smile as she crossed her legs. “Elizabeth! What are you doing here?”

Elizabeth clasped her hands. "The Vicomte seeks you."

Christine's mouth formed a small  _ O.  _ “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t.” At Christine’s continued blank stare, she sighed. “Do you want lunch or not?”

She followed after the disgruntled maid with a sense of disappointment. And, if the voice could see it, she mouthed a soft goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tehehehe, there's your first Shakespeare quote. I'm a huge Shakespeare enthusiast, so there's bound to be more ;)
> 
> Fun fact! This is one of the earliest ramblings I did for this story! I remember kind of being experimental with it? Trying to use a few more descriptors for the voice. Another fun fact is that this moment did a lot of traveling throughout the story, with one point having it be SEVERAL chapters later... Like chapter twelve maybe? I don't remember at this point oof. But I decided to move it up and have this meeting earlier since the bond between Christine and the voice BEFORE the main events happen was very important, and they needed that time together. Also, I feel like y'all would get impatient waiting for him aaah.
> 
> So, now things are getting more and more confusing. Mystery upon mystery is piling up, and poor Christine is getting drowned in them. As a certain book about another inquisitive young girl says, "Curiouser and curiouser!"


	8. Life Goes On

She spoke to him the next day.

All that night, she could not get his voice out of her head. This mysterious man, this so-called _ghost._ He was nothing like the others she had encountered, and certainly not like the creature who held that blue blanket.

His voice lacked the inhuman quality that had been expected. It was grounded in reality, a little hoarse and unused, but certainly grounded. It was pleasant. It was… Human.

And of course, all ghosts were human at some point, but his voice _emanated_ a humanity that just could not possibly be mimicked by any other spirit. Not only that, but his personality also had shone through. He was sharp and quick-witted, yet he was also sweet — or, at least, sweet _after_ their initial few moments of meeting. She knew nothing of the others. Sorelli, even with the proof of her existence, was never spoken of except in passing by Raoul.

So, that morning, she had decided to sate her curiosity.

And then, the next.

And then, the next.

And then, the next.

He always asked for her to sing as they began their conversation. Christine had to admit that she hated it, throwing her tired, unmotivated voice out for the world to hear, but it was the least she could do for the dead. She thought it had to be the worst possible thing she could give someone — compared to her ability to crochet or conversate, singing seemed like a mere excuse for a talent.

But he asked for it every day. If she could remember correctly, he had called it beautiful.

Beautiful, her angel had called it _beautiful_.

But then, during their first “lesson,” he continued: 

"There is, of course, room for improvement — just as any other singer has. But I believe, with time, you will make God and all of their angels weep," he had said firmly.

Christine had laughed at him. What else could she have done? Her voice was nothing, a mere whisper in the billions of other voices out there. God would hardly bat an eye.

To all of that criticism, Christine chuckled and replied simply with, "Alright, Maestro."

And with that, his nickname was born.

Maestro seemed to fit the voice well. He knew a great deal about music and had an equal amount of opinions. If he was not attempting to help her sing, he was informing her about different aspects. It excited him, filled him with an uncanny joy that nothing could ever rival. And even if she did not understand every term or reference, she appreciated his willingness to share his knowledge.

And his _singing._ Oh God, how could she describe it? It was many things; it was the trees rustling in the wind, the call of birds in the morning, a perfectly tuned violin, a baby's laugh, an angel's whisper.

She had stopped believing in fairytales when she had reached her teens. Such things were not seen as proper for girls like her. Christine could not be like Lotte — a girl who filled her mind with thoughts of nothing, a girl living in a fantastical state of mind. If she wanted to marry and have a prospective future, she needed her mind to be set in reality.

The Angel of Music had died the day she decided to mature, but now… Now, it had been resurrected. It had been resurrected and possessed her Maestro. 

She must have said something, for her Maestro had immediately spoken: “The what?”

“The Angel of Music,” she had said.

“And what is that?”

“The Angel of Music comes to those when they are sad and disheartened,” she had explained, “their ears hear such celestial harmonies, and a divine voice from beyond echoes in their ear. You never forget such a voice.” After some hesitance, she had lifted her head. “Papa promised to send them to me once he reached Heaven.”

“And you believe he has,” her Maestro had said. 

“I would like to.”

But some buried part of her had protested. The blackness of her subconscious knew very clearly that he was not in Heaven. She had seen him, once, watching her with his scrutinizing gaze. Her papa was not in Heaven, and that was what she feared the most.

Christine closed the door behind her. She sat on her bed and stared ahead of her. "Maestro?"

A beat of silence. Then, "Ah, there she is. The young primadonna is already beginning to slack on her classes?"

She flushed and tugged at a coil of her hair. "I — I'm sorry. One of the cooks had stopped me and asked me to adjust the menu due to some difficulty with another recipe. I'm not all that great at planning cuisine, let alone naming it, so it took him and I quite a while to figure things out."

"Hm. I would have assumed you were taught such duties by a governess?"

She snorted. "God, no. My papa couldn't afford a governess, nevermind such fine dining."

"So you were born… Lower class?"

"I suppose so," she mumbled, shifting awkwardly, "we traveled everywhere and rarely stayed in one city, so we somewhat lingered outside of the concept of class. It wasn't until we moved to Perros-Guirec and then Paris that we really considered such a thing."

"Curious. Your Maestro never would have expected your Vicomte to marry a woman much below his station."

She stiffened. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing bad —" he blurted out, "it is simply understood that nobility tends to be very strict when it comes to class and marriage. If you thought your Maestro meant any harm…"

"There was no one left that could stop Raoul from marrying beneath his status."

"Except those around him," her Maestro rejoined.

"Raoul isn't like that…" she argued. He hummed and said nothing more. Christine clenched her fists. “It isn't as if you know him better than I do. I've known him since he was a child.”

“Oh?”

She crossed her arms. "Yes, and I know that he will always choose his happiness first. The opinion of others will always come second."

"Of course, of course."

"In fact," she said sharply, "I'll go see him right now. He'll be much better company."

She ignored her Maestro's protests as she stood and opened the door. "Your practice —"

She slammed the door.

Christine would apologize later, but for now, she was to be petty.

A nearby maid kindly showed her where Raoul was at the present moment. It was his study, unsurprisingly, given the fact that he was working. 

The maid left her at the doorway. When she was out of sight, Christine pressed her ear to the wooden door. An unfamiliar voice echoed through it.

It was a northern American accent from what she could tell. His French was quite skilled, even if that American lilt snuck in every few moments. _“I don’t know why you don’t just deal with it already. ‘Causes so much ruckus —”_

She knocked on the door and opened it. Three men sat in the study: Raoul, Philippe, and what she assumed was the American. He was a thin man with long hair a similar shade as Philippe’s. She felt small under his hooded gaze.

“Lotte!” Raoul started. “I thought you would be… Be doing something…”

Christine giggled and shrugged. “What could I possibly do? Reading gets awfully dull after an hour or two, and I have no one to spend time with.” She turned to the American and tilted her head. “Who is this?”

Raoul gave a thin-lipped smile. “Lotte, this is Silas Cushane.”

“I'm pleased to meet you, messieur,” Christine said as she curtsied.

“As am I,” he said with the nod of his head.

“You’ve known my husband and brother-in-law for a while now?” Standard courtesy. The quicker she could end the conversation, the quicker she could leave. 

“‘A while?’” He laughed. “Quite the understatement, my dear —”

_Do not call me that._

“I’ve known these two since the Comte was a teen and your husband was but a child!”

Her smile was thin. “Quite a long friendship, it seems.”

“Indeed.”

“So!” She clasped her hands. “What were you all speaking about?”

Messieur Cushane sighed. “They're blabberin' on about work things — awfully borin', if you ask me. Y'know, I keep tellin' them to do somethin' fun, have some leisure time. Philippe over here looks like he's constantly suckin' on a lemon."

Despite all of the warnings telling her not to, she giggled. It was quickly suppressed, however, by Philippe's glare at Messieur Cushane.

"What?" The man whined. "It's true! If it weren't for the fine lady in here, I'd use some stronger descriptors."

Philippe sighed and crossed his legs. "And what, dear man, do you suggest we do?"

“Perhaps, we could see an opera,” she blurted out, placing a hand on the back of Raoul’s chair, "I hear that the new opera house in Paris is performing _Faust_ soon. That would be lovely.”

He stiffened and turned his head away from her. _“Faust_ is a dull, monotonous beast of an opera.”

She bristled. “I’m sure your wife would have disagreed with that." Her arms twitched in an attempt to cover her mouth, but the thought was quickly subdued.

“What do you know about my wife?” He hissed.

Christine felt her breath quicken. “I —”

Philippe stood from his chair and slowly approached her. “No. What the _hell_ do you know about my wife?”

Raoul winced. “Philippe, please…”

Her tongue felt as heavy as lead. She ran a hand through her hair, most certainly ruining it. “I didn’t mean anything —”

He was close now, uncomfortably so, yet her feet her firm against the ground, melded into the carpet. Why was Raoul not doing anything? Why was he silent? Why —

“Come now, Philippe, see reason.”

Both of their heads turned to the voice. Messieur Cushane stayed sitting as Raoul did, yet his demeanor gave off an air of unreasonable calmness. A small smile played at his lips. He continued, “I’m sure your sister-in-law meant no wrong. It’s only an opera; you know ladies love things like that.”

Philippe stared at him for a long time, absorbing every word the man said one-by-one. He opted not to comment, instead approaching a table with a bottle of nondescript alcohol and pouring himself a glass. He downed it as quickly as a bullet from a pistol.

Christine could not breathe. Her throat felt tight, and a mere moment of distraction risked her vomiting. The fabric of Raoul’s armchair wrinkled beneath her tensed fingers. She swallowed her rising bile. “I should… I should go.”

Shame burned in her eyes as she hurried with the speed of Hermes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something calmer and shorter to cool things down. And while technically, that's a lie, it's much calmer than some of the other chaotic things Christine has seen and heard.
> 
> And yes, even though Silas is speaking French, I gave him an accent because I like breaking the rules. I also like personalizing people's dialogue from time to time so uh, there's that, too. 
> 
> Feel free to comment about anything :D! I talk too much hehe


	9. Khan

Olive fingers grazed the wooden rail. Christine’s mind — her newfound knowledge — felt like the burdensome stone which Tantalus pushed up a hill constantly. She felt… Well, she felt betrayed. Her husband would not have been so evil, would he?

No, Philippe was good. He was kind to her, noble. Philippe would never…

And yet.

There were moments when the facade cracked — she had seen it. The outbursts of anger, the bouts of drinking that came and went. There was something beneath his skin — something he refused to reveal to her.

“I want to know every part of you,” she had said once.

His expression had darkened. He looked away. “No, you don’t.”

How foolish she was to never delve into that comment.

So, there she was, in the attic. He told her that was where she would find her proof.

“A skeptic’s mind,” he had said, “a good thing to have. It will serve you well soon after.”

She searched through the boxes and chests until she found the one she was looking for.

It was the late Comte’s. It had to be.

The clothing that kept a decade-old aesthetic and the even older clothing. It was the items she found under his exorbitant amount of shirts that sent chills up her spine. First was his diary which she put beside her. Next… Next was worrisome.

Pictures — several of them. They were all of an intimate nature, uncomfortably so. There were drawings as well, lewd ones of a repulsive nature. Not one image contained a smile.

There was a single frock in the chest. She did not touch. She did not dare.

Christine closed the chest, practically slamming it with displeasure. She gave the diary the same treatment. 

At first, the writing was quite normal and rather bland. The late Comte mentioned a person known as “C” every few entries. Everything connected to them was vague but filled with implications of something horrible. She logged it in her mind and kept reading; Christine was looking for something specific.

Slowly, it began. The name was scattered in the first entries, casual mentions of notable things that happened day to day. And then… And then, it became more. The name appeared more and more. Entire entries were dedicated to it…  _ Her.  _ It was obsessive.

What she saw next revolted her.

Christine awoke to a dark room.

The smallest bit of light shone on her clock.

5:30.

Her mind was far too awake now to bother going back to bed. Christine got up.

She traveled down the stairs still in her nightgown, the candlestick in her hand flickering a faint light. There would be a quick trip to the kitchen, she decided, to grab something simple to eat for breakfast. Then, she would return to her bedroom before Elizabeth ever knew she was gone.

Christine paddled onto the kitchen hoping to find an apple or if Lady Luck was on her side today, some sort of pastry to munch on. She froze at the doorway. “Oh! Good morning.”

Two maids, Peggy and Marie, and Sebastian, one of the cooks, stood in the kitchen. Sebastian worked calmly while the two women gossiped — or, they did until Christine interrupted them.

“Vicomtesse!” Peggy cried. They both curtsied.

Embarrassment and fear immediately rushed through her veins. She waved her hands. “Oh, God, please don’t curtsy. You don’t need to do that.”

"But it's —"

"Procedure?" Christine filled in. "I know, but it makes me  _ far  _ too uncomfortable."

Sebastian snorted. "She isn't lying. When Colette curtsied, she nearly had a heart attack."

Colette was another one of the cooks that Christine had actually, physically met. It was a memory she knew neither of them would forget, much to Christine's blushing embarrassment.

“I’m not the queen of England,” she sighed, "just Christine. Or Vicomtesse around Philippe."

The maids smiled at that, and Christine felt her muscles loosen. Peggy barely stepped forward. "What are you doing up so early?"

"Nightmare," she admitted, fiddling with a coil of hair with her free hand, "I barely felt tired and it was late enough, so I decided to go ahead and get up."

Marie shivered. "I despise having nightmares, especially here. The aesthetic of the whole manor doesn't give an inch of comfort."

All of them agreed with a hum or a nod.   


“I always feel like someone is watching me,” she confessed, “it’s silly, but…”

“No, no, no! I completely understand. Some of the staff  _ swear  _ this place is haunted.” She paused and tapped her partner’s arm. “Peggy, tell them about your maman.”

Peggy gasped with excitement. "My mama used to work for the de Chagnys —  _ She  _ said that she saw a ghost hurry down the hall. Its eyes were a horrifying, glowing yellow… And according to her, it had a  _ hole  _ for a nose!" She cried, pressing a finger against the tip of her nose.

"Oh, yes!" Added the second maid. "His face is supposedly deformed and  _ hideous.  _ Peggy's maman said he looked like a skeleton."

"Don't go spreading rumors and terrifying the Vicomtesse like that," Sebastian scolded.

"But it's not a rumor! My mama saw it!" She cried.

"And where is your mother now?" At Peggy's glowering glare, Sebastian nodded solemnly. "Exactly."

"The  _ other  _ maids saw it and said it was true," she muttered.

“And they are no more verifiable than your mother.”

Peggy grabbed the other maid's arm and huffed. “Whatever.”

They left the room muttering, leaving Christine bewildered. She turned to Sebastian and approached his side. “Why don’t you believe them?”

“Why would I?” He asked. “Everything they’ve claimed is absolute, mind my language, bullshit.”

Christine frowned. "But if others have verified it, there has to be some truth to it."

"Maids believe anything that comes from one of their own mouths. Of course they'd claim it's true."

"Peggy said the other maids  _ saw  _ it," she argued.

"And? Lying isn't that rare of a concept, and even if they 'saw' something, clearly, it was some sort of hysteria, because they're all gone now."

Her eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"Many of the staff had been forced into asylums. No doubt that this generation will join them if they keep blabbering on about all this.”

"That's…"

"Cruel? Horrible? I know." He sighed and shook his head. "'Tis the way the world works, unfortunately."

Christine left soon after; her appetite was well gone.

Her morning was rather uneventful with her mostly just chatting with her Maestro and attempting to ignore the knowledge that Sebastian had so casually laid upon her. Elizabeth "woke her up" as usual, and she continued her uneventful morning with an uneventful breakfast.

The weather was rather pleasing today compared to the dull rain that was experienced yesterday. The sky was still greyed and the Sun hid her face with her fan of clouds, but Christine was not picky. The daytime no longer felt as safe as before, but the outside world was somewhat of a safe-haven. The faint cooing of birds in the distance, the rush of wind against her face — Demeter’s hug, though cold, protected her from the world of Hades that lay indoors.

Her boots clicked against the stone trail and distracted her as she hummed. Outside of her visits with her Maestro, she rarely got the chance to sing anymore. How long had it been? A year or two, at least. She took any rare chance she got.

Very few of the staff members wandered the gardens, most of them working indoors. One, however, a man in grey, did rest on their knees in front of the decayed flower beds. She frowned.

“Excuse me…” She hurried towards the man. “What are you doing?”

The man in grey stared at her as if she asked him a question in a completely different language. A moment passed. “I’m preparing the flowerbed for Spring, Vicomtesse.”

He said it so bluntly. A knot formed between Christine’s brow as she began fiddling with her hands. “Shouldn’t Messieur Khan be doing this work? He is the groundskeeper after all…”

“Oh,” the man in grey chuckled, “the Persian doesn’t do any of that sort of work. He rarely gets near the dirt, in all honesty.”

“Then… Then what does he  _ do?” _

The man clicked his tongue. “None of us really know, madame. We mostly see him stalk the land or walk on the second floor. Whatever he does, it’s certainly not groundskeeping.”

“I see,” she murmured, the gears in her mind turning.

“I try to avoid him; I recommend you do too,” he chuckled, “you know, some of the maids say he has the  _ ‘evil eye.’”  _ As if to mimic the ladies, he pointed his forefinger and pinky and kept his second and third fingers pressed against his palm, holding them down with his thumb. “They do that every time he gets near.”

She cringed. The familiarity of glares and harmful gestures was not foreign to her. She understood very well how they felt — how they  _ stung.  _ “That seems awfully rude, doesn’t it?”

“Psh, they don’t care. As long as it comforts them, they couldn’t give a damn about what he thinks of it.”

Christine fell silent. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together as a sense of guilt formed a pit in her stomach. Had she seen it? The maids and their cruel gestures to ward off some sort of evil? Was she just as bad for being wary of Messieur Khan?

“Well,” she whispered, “I ought to let you get back to work. Thank you for speaking with me, monsieur.”

The man became nothing but a grey dot as she walked back to the mansion. Several things mulled in her mind, her thoughts becoming a marble which she rolled around in her head. 

Each little detail divided themselves into groups. There were pity and empathy for Messieur Khan; he was harassed by the staff and seen as some form of evil that needed to be warded away. Then, there was fear and wariness; Christine knew nothing about him — he was a blank slate. Clearly, Raoul had been lying when he said Messieur Khan was the groundskeeper. But why would he lie? The man still had a set of house keys; every key possible, it seemed. Raoul trusted the man that much.

Christine entered the house, shrugging off her cloak and handing it to a maid who came to attend her. Each step she took up the long staircase was mindless. She was a naturally curious woman, and she knew that if Raoul would not give her answers, she would have to get them herself.

Raoul’s study was an intimidating thing on its own. Her husband’s presence was lacking, making the space seem much wider — unnaturally so. Christine sighed, running her hand over the smooth, mahogany desk. His space was always meticulous. Not a loose sheet of paper was in sight.

She stepped behind the desk, kneeling to look through the drawers. He had to have a checkbook or a payroll  _ somewhere. _

__ Her fingers delicately wrapped around the handle, as to not leave any obvious marks, and pulled.

“Shit.”

It was locked. Of course it was.

_ I bet Messieur Khan  _ also  _ has that damned key. _

__ She pulled a pin from her hair. In a book she had read, the protagonist had picked a lock with a hairpin. It could not be that hard, could it? She carefully pinched the pin until it was shaped like an  _ L.  _ Gently, she placed it inside the lock, wiggling it up and down. She repeated the process multiple times, pushing her pin up, listening carefully for the soft clicks that the lock emitted.

Finally, a lock click rang out.

The drawer opened to reveal several yellowed parchments of papers. Letters.

Her fingers gently caressed the rough sheets. They stank of age and dust. She gently gathered them up and placed them on his desk. His desk chair squeaked as she sat upon it, causing her to flinch. This room did not echo, but human ears were most keen when they sensed that something somewhere was wrong.

_ New York City January 30th, 1867 _

_ Comte Philippe de Chagny, _

__ The remainder of the writing had been blacked out with black ink. At the very bottom, a man’s — most likely Philippe’s — clean handwriting simply wrote: "File information away and burn."

Her eyebrows furrowed.

_ New York City — America. _

__ Monsieur Cushane's leering smile formed in her mind. An American. An American with a city accent.

"More than just friends…" she murmured, running her fingers across the chrysanthemum seal, "business partners."

But why would he keep such a trivial detail hidden? If there was nothing of suspicious circumstances afoot, why bother to hide?

She giggled.  _ Your husband and brother-in-law are criminals, Christine Daaé. _

__ She consciously ignored the beads of sweat forming at her brow.

Christine returned the papers to the drawer and closed it; those letters would be a mystery for another day. She repeated her hair-pin process with the other drawers until she came across a locked, metal box. It made logical sense — Raoul would not want any greedy servants sneaking in and messing with their pay.

_ Nor would he want conniving women to butt into his past business. _

She also ignored that.

Unlocking the box, she gasped with relief.

Payrolls. 

She found his name and froze, blinking several times. Her vision, apparently, was not failing her as she read and reread the number once more. She put the sheet to her side and pulled out the next. The same number. She repeated the process again. The same number. Every single one as far she looked was the same.

Twenty-thousand francs. Every month.

She cursed under her breath as she rested the checkbook in her lap and stared forward. That exorbitant amount of money given to him since 1855… The question she had asked earlier returned to the forefront of her mind: what was Messieur Khan’s job?

Not a groundskeeper and certainly not a servant. The most he did was wander the grounds with a sharp eye. A guard, perhaps? Though a weapon was not visible, it was perfectly likely that he was hiding one.

_ But Raoul  _ said  _ he was a groundskeeper. Why would he lie about that? _

__ The idea that her husband worried she would be afraid was ridiculous. If anything, she would be  _ comforted  _ by the fact that there was a guard. So that must mean he lied to her. But once again,  _ why? _

It was not important enough for Philippe to casually volunteer to deal with  _ “it,”  _ but important enough for Messieur Khan to panic when he did.

Christine closed her eyes and attempted to repress the growing frustration in her gut. Being so ignorant of the situations around her… It was obnoxiously, hair-pullingly, infuriatingly annoying. She could ask, but then, she would have to reveal that she had been sneaking around. She could stay quiet, but then, she would have to deal with her Tantalus-esque hunger for answers.

So, she would be malleable. Questions needed answering — she would just have to find them in an indirect manner. Being a detective did not seem too difficult, especially when she had plenty of time to find her clues.

All she needed now was a convenient moment. Several, in fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop, Christine is once again not minding her business. Oh well! Sorry this took longer than expected!! Rehearsals for our school's musical have been tiring aaaa. Dancing Queen and A Musical are hassles to dance to.
> 
> Feel free to comment :O! love hearing what ya'll think!


	10. Camellias, Queen Bees, and Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Racism and mild gore  
> If the racism could trigger you, skip everything between "They began to eat silently..." and "A sharp air flowed from Christine’s nose..."
> 
> If the mild gore could trigger you, skip everything between "Her mouth set in a stiff, insincere smile..." and "Christine stood, prepared to comfort the woman..."
> 
> I'll put a small summary in the end notes that contains a summary of what happened in a non-triggering way.

Her convenient moment came quite sooner than expected. In fact, it came the very next morning. It appeared that Messieur Khan truly did enjoy his leisurely walks, as she so perfectly bumped into him during her own. Never one to pass up an amicable conversation, he, of course, joined her at her behest. Suddenly, however, he paused and reached into his jacket. 

“I completely forgot to show you what I found yesterday!” He retrieved a bright pink flower with petals that spread out delicately. It held the shape of a woman’s ballgown. 

“A camellia,” he explained, “it blooms year-round.”

He handed it to her with a grin. Christine delicately wrapped her fingers around the bright green — bright green! How long had it been since she had seen that in nature? — and held it to her bosom. “Why, thank you, messieur.”

“Nadir,” he corrected, “and it truly was no problem. I thought you deserved a little bit of life back into your life. Persephone can only last so long without her sweet Demeter.”

"Are you always this charming to a lady?" She asked, smirking.

"If I didn't, chivalry might as well be dead," he replied.

She hummed as she sniffed the flower. The was the faintest of scents that lingered on it. "Well, thank you, messieur. You're about the nicest servant I've interacted with so far."

Not entirely true but true enough.

He raised his eyebrows. "Really? What about that little maid? Surely she must be nice enough for you. She'd lose her job if she didn't."

Christine scoffed. "She's cold. The little conversation she makes with me rivals the conversations I've had with any of the other servants. She cares more about what I'm wearing than how I feel at all."

"And how do you feel, Vicomtesse?" He murmured.

She paused, twisting the delicate flower between her fingertips. "It’s complicated. And ridiculous. It doesn’t matter to you.”

His expression was gentle. “I would disagree. Speak your mind — I shall respond with a complete sense of neutrality.”

“I feel… Empty.” A weight lifted from her chest. “I feel afraid — things are going on in this manor that I don't fully understand."

"I see." He nodded.

"It's silly, like I said." She looked up at him from the flower like the flicker of a flame. "But enough about me — I wanted to ask you something."

His eyes glanced to his side and back before he spoke. "Go ahead…"

"Do you have assistants? I saw a man working on the flowerbeds yesterday and I was quite perplexed." She kept her eyes wide and innocent. Hunger hidden under the guise of curiosity.

"I do." _He hesitated,_ she noted. "An older man like me can't do continuous physical labor, you know."

She bit back her grimace of doubt. Messieur Khan — _Nadir —_ did not look that old, first of all — he had to at least be in his forties or fifties. Second, she had seen him walk up and down stairs with her perfectly fine. 

"Well, if it has grown too strenuous for you…" she began, "perhaps, you should go into retirement? I'm sure Raoul wouldn't mind at all."

He chuckled and shook his head. "I don't think I could ever retire. Not until my work is finished. Besides, I have a wonderful doctor helping me with my… Aching joints."

"I'm sure the exorbitant amount of money Raoul pays you makes sure of that," she replied, keeping her eye on him.

He stiffened. "Ah, yes. I suppose so."

_He's not denying it._

"So strange," she sighed dramatically, cocking her head, "I've never seen someone paid as well as you."

"The Comte is a generous man." He winced at that.

“That he is.” She did not sound too sure of that either.

Nadir guided her to the dining room and released her with a delicate glance. She almost hesitated to leave him as she sat near Raoul. Raoul kept his eyes on her and cleared his throat.

“I thought about some of the things you said,” he began.

She frowned but leaned in interest. “What things?”

“First off, I thought about the conversation you and Silas had. The one about leisure time.”

“And…?"

“Well,” he chuckled, “Philippe is quite against seeing any operas. _However,_ I did convince him of something else. I think you’ll like it.”

She was not entirely sure, but she prompted him to continue anyway.

“A ball! Or, two balls. One in two days' time and another at the end of February. A masked ball to mark the end of the month would be fun, don’t you think?”

She smiled — genuinely, surprisingly. “Yes… I think it would.”

“Now…” He rubbed his hands together excitedly. “I have one more surprise for you.”

“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow.

“Well, you mentioned how you have been lonely. So, I took the initiative and invited some guests over for tea! Philippe and I will be out, so you’ll have some nice privacy to gossip all you want. Meeting some women just like you would be nice, yes?”

Her heart plummeted.

“They are socialites; very lovely women, really. I’ve met them mostly during balls but a few are the wives of business partners.”

“You…”

“Isn’t that wonderful?”

_“No!”_ She started from her chair, slamming her hand on the table. She felt her body tremble. “You… You can’t do that! You can’t just invite people…”

“It’s _our_ house, I have every right to invite guests over!” He argued.

“Yes, but you invited those guests to see _me._ I — I haven’t had any time to prepare. God knows the cooks will need to —”

Raoul waved his hand. “The cooks were told ahead of time.”

_“‘Ahead of time?’”_ She repeated incredulously. “We had all of this time — why didn’t you tell me?”

“I… Suppose I didn’t think of it,” he said, “I assumed —”

 _“You_ assumed I would be fine with this?” She interrupted.

“Well… Yes. Is there a problem with that?”

She scoffed incredulously. “Of course there is! You _assumed!”_

“Because I was confident that you could handle it!”

“Handle what? A sudden appearance of women I’ve _never_ met? A surprise tea party that was planned behind my back that _I_ am expected to host?”

“Yes!”

“Well, I can’t!” She yelled. “I’m not this… Infallible being that can do whatever is thrown at her! God, I don’t even know how to _host_ tea parties!”

“I’m sure I can help you…”

“In the span of a few hours? I don’t, I can’t —”

Her chest felt tight despite how quickly it moved up and down. Each thought felt tangled and confusing — nothing felt solid.

“Lotte, breathe…”

She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

His eyes were pitiful. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I —” She heaved and placed her head in her hands. They were cold and clammy. “Raoul, I need some time alone.”

Her door felt solid against her back, a shield to protect her from the normal world. She closed her eyes. “I assume you heard all of that?”

“Indeed.” Her Maestro hesitated before speaking once more. “Are you going to be alright?”

“I feel like I might vomit,” she confessed, running her hands through her hair. Poor Elizabeth would have to fix her hair once more. “I — I can’t possibly do this.”

“Nonsense,” he rebuffed, “you are one of the bravest women I know. A mere gaggle of women is hardly an adversary or you.”

“How? Humans are entirely different from… From sneaking around manors.” She opened her dresser and searched for a decent enough frock to wear; one that showed wealth but still retained a good amount of humility and modesty.

“True, true, but your Maestro believes you are made of something stronger than any of them.”

Christine pursed her lips. “I doubt it.”

She tightened the laces of her corset and heaved. Gently, she put on her gown, afraid that a single movement would tear the fabric. Her fingers fumbled over the buttons of her bodice. “I wish you were here to help — my hands won’t stop shaking,” she huffed, “God, if I keep this up, I won’t be able to dress at all.”

“Why not ask your maid?” Her Maestro asked.

“I — I don’t want to bother her. And I… Don’t want her to touch me like that.”

“Yet you would like your Maestro to?” His soft barely shook.

She imagined hands grazing over her bare flesh, over her chemise, over her corset, fingers grazing her neck — Christine flushed. “Well, I simply trust you more.”

“You trust the creature you barely know over the maid who has taken care of you since you arrived at de Chagny Manor?”

“You are not a creature, first of all. You are — were? — _are_ a man. Second of all, yes. You’ve bonded with me far more than Elizabeth ever has. You’re my friend.”

He paused. “I — Your Maestro did not realize you saw this relationship as… A friendship.”

“Well, yes, of course I do.” Now, it was her turn to pause. She fiddled with the stitched pattern on her bodice. “Do you… Want us to be that? Friends?”

“I would love that.” There was a grin in that answer.

“Good.”

She left her bedroom and her spirits sank to a pitiful zero. There were no sweet Maestros to comfort her now.

Christine planted herself in the parlor, her leg shaking violently in a vain attempt to dissuade her anxiety. Every noise made her jump, and this time, it was not due to ghosts or spirits of any kind. 

The socialites arrived promptly. Christine could have sworn her heart burst when the doorbell rang and sent tremors throughout the floor. Her limbs shook like leaves in the wind. Her mouth was a desert.

The women looked kind enough, yet there was a glint in their eyes similar to the way you would react to a pet giving you a less than savory surprise after an outdoor excursion. A woman with brown, intricately-done hair stood in the front and led the group like some kind of queen bee. These women knew each other and formed their own army, leaving her to defend herself by her lonesome as Horatius Cocles defended the Pons Sublicius. But Christine was no brave warrior — she was simply herself, and that was all she had.

The queen bee's lips pursed in a small smile as she curtsied. "So, you're the woman the Vicomte de Chagny has been blabbering on about."

Christine's own smile was weak — a strained thing that clung awkwardly to her face. "That's me." She paused before remembering to curtsy. "Christine Da — de Chagny."

“Your husband speaks highly of you.”

Her face burned as her heart sank. “Does he?”

“Oh, yes; Your invitation has been highly anticipated by all of us. We were quite glad when he told us you called upon us.”

_A bit of an understatement._

She did not even know they existed until this morning.

“But of course.”

She and Elizabeth guided them to where they would be congregating. They had to eat in the dining room, barely decorated to enhance what Raoul thought were "feminine aesthetics." In her opinion, it changed nothing; the grey sky was still grey no matter how many bright colors he tried to add.

"I hope you don't mind," she explained, "Raoul thought the parlor was too small for you all."

“I… Have seen worse,” Madame Bourienne said dryly.

Christine sat at the end of the table. Two women sat diagonally from her. The first was rather forgettable while the second kept glancing at her with obvious eyes. Her bright green dress made her just more obvious. 

She sighed through her nostrils and turned her head towards the woman. Her smile was weary. “Hello.”

The woman’s eyes glimmered. She leaned closely into Christine’s personal space. "Carlotta," she said in an overly-saccharine voice, "our husbands have worked together from time to time."

That comment made her uncomfortable for reasons she could not put into words. She barely inched away from the perfume-coated woman. "Wonderful."

"He's a nice man, your husband. Much better than that brother-in-law. It must be dull living with him."

Christine shook her head. "I couldn't say anything bad about him —" _Not while any servant is around —_ "but he is an interesting man to be around."

"Both of them are interesting," she chuckled, "they're so quiet when around my Piangi! Always huddled around like schoolgirls." Something flashed over her face as she slowly leaned closer to her with a hunger. "Surely, you must know a lot from living with them."

_Far too much._

"Not really," Christine sighed, "a man's business is not for his bride to know."

Carlotta's expression flattened as she straightened her back and sipped her tea. "Of course."

They began to eat silently. Christine found herself completely full; Madame Bourienne’s direct stare made her uncomfortably full. Madame Bourienne bit into her cake delicately — uncomfortably perfect. After swallowing, she smiled. “You know, you were far different from what I expected.”

"What do you mean by that?" Christine asked, sipping her tea. It scalded her tongue.

"Well, you are…" Madame Bourienne hesitated before continuing, "You are black. And not to mention albino. Not exactly vicomtesse material, don't you think?"

Her brows were set in a permanent furrow. Something cold, dissolving into pure adrenaline rested in her stomach. "No, I don't, actually. I believe there is no such thing as 'vicomtesse' material."

Madame Bourienne's lips thinned. "Of course, of course." After a sharp inhale, she smiled with squinted, condescending eyes — eyes filled with a hatred even Madame Bourienne was not fully aware of. "I didn't mean any harm, you know. No need to be so offended. I would hate to cause a rift between us — we women need to be each other's allies, don't we?"

Many hummed in agreement, all glaring at Christine. Her face burned — not with shame but something else entirely.

"Though," she added, "some might disagree with your opinion. You wouldn't want to displease any figure friends or partners of your husband. Your skin color could be an advantage to you."

"Excuse me?" Had she not clutched onto the arms of her chair, Christine might have flown out of it. Her face scalded now with unbridled fury.

"Well, your features don't help, but the future is arriving quicker than we will ever anticipate. Those things can be fixed."

"There isn't anything about me that needs to be _fixed."_

The women laughed while she glared.

"Oh, sweetheart," Madame Bourienne sighed, "you are so silly!"

"Don't call me 'sweetheart,'" Christine muttered under her breath.

_Don't infantilize me._

Madame Bourienne hummed and rested a hand on her chin. "Your hair will be easy. Your face, however…"

“I hear that they have surgeries that can fix one's nose that originated from India!” A woman with bright green eyes cried. “Perhaps they have a form of surgery that could shrink her nose?”

One hummed with mild displeasure. “I suppose, but wouldn’t it leave quite the ugly scar?”

“Perhaps, but she could always cover it with powder,” Madame Bourienne countered.

“And make the Vicomtesse even paler?” A lady asked, sending the others into a titter. Christine forced herself to join in.

“Why, she’ll look like a ghost!” Another cried.

A sharp air flowed from Christine’s nose. Her jaw felt uncomfortably tight; she attempted to loosen it. Her mouth set in a stiff, insincere smile.

The whistling of metal whizzed past her ear, leaving a ringing in its wake. Something slammed into the table and sent the teacups, plates, and cake-stands clattering. The dazed women were torn from their shock when there was a hideous howl that continued on and on. Christine’s eyes flicked to the end of the table where Madame Bourienne’s face was frozen in horror — her hand waved violently, and her knees slammed against the bottom of the table. A knife had pierced her hand, seemingly sliding straight through the flesh and muscle and bone. She could not lift it; the knife had stabbed through the table as well. Blood spilled across the table cloth and turned the white cloth into a vibrant red.

Christine stood, prepared to comfort the woman, but she froze as she felt the cloth slip beneath her palms. It flew from the wooden table, slipping past Madame Bourienne and falling to the floor. The dishes joined them, shattering to the ground and cracking against the women who surrounded Madame Bourienne. Tea and cakes ruined gowns and scalded skins. Christine waited for the screams, yet they never came. All of the women stared at the mess around them and then, her. She could not count how many cycles of breath she had taken. Her mind wandered at every moment, hardly being able to focus on the disaster in front of her.

“Oh my God,” she choked out, stumbling back. Her chair scraped against the floor as her arms placed all of her weight upon the head of the chair.

Madame Bourienne had ceased screaming. All that remained was the smell of —

_Roses._

Christine’s vision turned black. She heard a clattering of furniture and the odd sensation of something solid and cold against her flesh. Squealing and screaming. Yes, there was that as well.

Her face scrunched up as she tried to regain her vision and consciousness. She opened her eyes to a blurred vision of the carpet and table legs. The rough terrain of the carpet scratched against her palms. The women were rushing past her.

She heaved as her vision faded once more.

* * *

Elizabeth and a few of the other maids helped her clean up the mess and release Madame Bourienne. The woman said nothing to her, only staring with a look of unbridled horror. Christine ensured her trip to the doctor was paid for privately. She then paid each of the maids an extra hundred francs.

It ensured that they would keep their mouths shut.

For the first time since they had met, Christine refused to confide in her Maestro. It was as if her lips had been sewn shut, her eyes permanently open. Energy buzzed from her fingertips and shook her arms violently. Not a single limb could keep still.

It was the first thing Raoul pointed out when he returned. He laughed, if she remembered correctly, noting how ashen and ghostly she looked. Oh, if only he knew.

She wondered what her Maestro's reaction would be. He had been sharp before, but surely, he would not mock her for something so… Real. It was not just an olive-skinned woman watching her, or a yellow-eyed creature snatching a blanket — people were _hurt._

Her Maestro would care about that. Yes, he would make some remark about the cruelty of Madame Bourienne and _perhaps_ she deserved it, but he would not mock Christine's fear and guilt.

_But Raoul doesn't know anything about today._

And? Should he not have been worried when seeing his wife so pale? Her Maestro had panicked after hearing her _sigh,_ and he only _heard_ her. Raoul had the privilege to see her, to feel her clammy hands, to smell the fear that emanated from her. There had to be a modicum of understanding.

God, she was comparing him to a so-called ghost! Something that was bound to be just a figment of her imagination and if not that, was certainly not a good choice in companionship. Why continue to defend him?

_Because he listens._

Raoul listened. When he was not busy, at least. She could tell Raoul everything she told her Maestro, and he would listen just fine.

_But would he really listen? Genuinely? Hum in agreement, add silly little quips every few moments, laugh at her jokes? Or would he simply respond "That's nice" to each statement?_

_Admit it, Raoul is hardly as great a listener as your Maestro. Nor as entertaining or attentive or —_

"Christine."

Christine jumped and turned quickly to Raoul. He smiled and placed his fork down. "You lost yourself for a moment there, my dear."

"Apologies," she replied hastily, "I just have much to think about. I had quite the day."

"That's nice."

She scowled and stabbed her fork into her meal. "Those ladies you invited came over."

"Ah, good, I was worried they would back out. It's good they kept their word."

Christine's face now felt burning hot. There was no doubt in her mind that her face was now a deep pink. "They were fine guests," she lied.

Raoul nor Philippe showed any signs of awareness that Madame Bourienne was stabbed with a fork or the table cloth had been ripped away, splattering everything in tea and cookies. That was good.

"Then I'll be sure to invite them again," Raoul said, much to her disappointment. He pushed his plate back and studied her. "I'm quite stuffed. You?"

She looked down at her still-full plate and shrugged. "I hadn't much of an appetite."

That night, the Vicomtesse de Chagny handed a young boy a letter and a good amount of francs. It was swiftly delivered, given to a woman in black who read it with solemn curiosity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary 1: Madame Bourienne and the other women insult Christine's features
> 
> Summary 2: After a moment of tense air, Madame Bourienne is suddenly attacked with a fork by seemingly nothing.
> 
> We got Christine's first fainting spell! As is tradition for every Phantom fic, it seems, hehe.
> 
> For the nose-job reference in this chapter, I was referencing the work of Sushruta, an Indian physician. He wrote the "Suśruta-saṃhitā" which is one of the most important ancient treatises on medicine. There is also Johann Friedrich Dieffenbach who wrote "Operative Chirurgie," also about rhinoplasty, in 1845.
> 
> We've got some new characters coming up next chapter, so I hope y'all are looking forward to them!
> 
> (Oh, and for anyone wondering, my water is safe to drink again!! The weather has gotten MUCH better. Thanks for caring so much!!)


	11. Séance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The ghosts swarm.  
> They speak as one  
> person. Each  
> loves you. Each  
> has left something  
> undone."  
> (Unbidden, Rae Armantrout)

The women were always seen together. The first was tall and slim, always wearing pure black and a bonnet with a thin veil draped over it. The second and smaller of the two was slimmer than the other, with profound cheekbones and a body that looked as though she had not eaten in quite a while. The smaller woman, while dressed just as dark as her partner, avoided black, usually dressed in dark violet. There was a strange air around them that you could sense the moment they stepped around the corner. There were whispers, rumors of the occult and satanic connections. None of these comments phased the women. No, such rumors were quite useful when it came to business.

Maids were the best at spreading such information. Their chatty little selves would be overheard by the mistress or master of the house, and if they were plagued by the supernatural, they would call upon the women to solve their problems.

Their arrival was announced by the tapping of the older Giry's cane against the ground. Today was no different as the women's carriage came to a halt, and they each stepped out.

The older Giry stared at their customer's home, a familiar sense of weight growing in her stomach.

The smaller woman turned to her partner. “Is everything alright?”

“I’ve never liked this place,” the woman replied.

The smaller Giry never liked vagueness. Unfortunately for her, such things were common for her mother. It must have been part of the job description.

Meg Giry liked things simple and straightforward — life was much easier that way. In a world filled with hardships, it grew annoying not knowing the full answer. Her mother was always looking to the past. Meg knew she would not be there — not ever. She learned to deal with it.

What she could _not_ deal with was traveling several hours away from the city. It was going to be incredibly late by the time they returned home, and she had finally gotten her sleep back on schedule.

“You’re still upset.”

Meg smirked; both out of annoyance and fondness. “You could tell?”

“Your brows are furrowed and your arms are crossed. You never cross your arms.”

"I just can't believe you were willing to travel out _this far_ ," She admitted.

"I have done it before."

"Yes, but she paid _well,"_ she explained, "this woman is paying the average amount you would do for any other session. What is _so_ special about her?"

Her mother sighed. "There is nothing special about her. The Vicomtesse de Chagny claims spirits are plaguing her home and requests our help. Nothing more, nothing less."

She approached the door and knocked. The wood faded from dark to light brown with age. It had obviously begun to rot.

The door opened unnaturally quick, and the Vicomtesse was revealed. There was a wild look to her eyes, something frazzled.

Meg's once grumpy expression turned to one of recognized kinship. Now that it was known that they were not working with the identical customers as was usual, Meg's curiosity was piqued.

The Vicomtesse had gentle eyes. "Are you…?"

"Yes, Vicomtesse," her mother answered.

Relief visibly flooded through her and a weak smile spread across her lips. "Welcome."

She led them through the winding halls, softly humming. It was barely audible, but it made the older Giry’s ears prick.

The Vicomtesse was certainly a sight to behold. She was also certainly not what Antoinette expected when it came to what the youngest de Chagny would choose for a bride. She was the same race as Antoinette, a lovely black woman, though her pigmentation was off. Rather than the usual lovely browns that colored their skin and deep blacks that lined their hair, the Vicomtesse had surprisingly pale skin, like that of ivory, and hair that was an almost white, blonde. It was not hideous or anything of the sort, quite the opposite, but it certainly was a surprise.

She opened the door to what she could only assume was her room. Antoinette’s brows barely puckered into a frown. “Don’t you think the parlor would be a better place?”

The Vicomtesse shook her head. “Then the servants will know you’re here. Besides, this place is… I believe it has a good energy.”

_That_ she could somewhat understand. Something powerful did indeed linger here.

Antoinette rested her bag onto the Vicomtesse’s nightstand and retrieved three sticks of incense. She lit them with a nearby candle and began to slowly circle the room as ribbons of smoke followed. The overwhelming scent from frankincense and myrrh filled the room. Christine retrieved one of the sticks of incense and studied it. 

After a moment of silence, she spoke, “How does one see spirits?”

Madame Giry shrugged as she continued spreading the incense. “Usually through inheritance. Of course, there are other ways, such as head trauma. Close relationships to the deceased increase the likelihood of someone normal seeing a spirit, as well as intense grief. Though, of course, there are exceptions. The world beyond the veil does not follow our logic and rules.”

"Of course." She nibbled at her lip.

"Do you see them, Vicomtesse?" Meg asked.

"I…" she hesitated, "maybe."

_Either that or I've completely lost it._

Madame Giry changed the subject. "How long have the spirits been active?"

“They’ve been here for a while, I believe. I knew of them ever since I arrived here. Things only grew violent after a few women visited for tea.”

“Did they do anything that could be deemed disrespectful to the spirit?” Madame Giry asked.

She fiddled with her hands. “Well, they were being… Rude, I suppose. Made racially-charged comments about my appearance. I don’t know why that would anger them, however.”

“They could have a deep care for you.”

_Like my Maestro._

“Or some sort of connection to you.”

_Like Sorelli._

“If you mind me asking, what did the spirit do?”

Christine felt ill merely recounting it. “One of them women was stabbed in the hand. After that, the table cloth was torn away and… Well, you can assume what happened.”

Meg chuckled. At her mother’s glare, she pouted. “What? They deserved it.”

“I’m neither agreeing nor disagreeing with you, child. The Vicomtesse and I need to focus, first.” Madame Giry turned back to Christine. “Shall we begin?”

She gulped. “I suppose so.”

The two women closed the curtains while Christine snuffed the light that had emitted from her lamp. Madame Giry returned to the table and retrieved several carefully wrapped candles from her bag. They were gathered on the center of the floor and each lit. The yellow light glinted off of her ring. Christine sat across from Madame Giry and beside Meg. The girl, despite the tense air, grinned and nodded.

“Join hands,” Madame Giry ordered, “you know that we are communicating with the dead already. This room and the energy we are emitting will be the conduit which the spirits will communicate through. Do you understand what I mean so far?”

Christine nodded weakly. Her eyes kept glancing around her, watching for Sorelli or the creature in the attic hiding in the shadows. It would be so easy for them to pounce out and drag her away. It sent shivers down her spine.

“We shall communicate through knocks. There will be more explanation when we have a sign of a spirit. Until then, simply follow my lead. Now, close your eyes and mimic the noise I make.”

The world turned completely black. Madame Giry began to emit a soft humming. It was one, repetitious note. The sound they made vibrated through her body and slid across the room. The air was cold — too cold to possibly breathe in or out without a sense of discomfort. An icy, slimy feeling ran down Christine’s spine.

Something was there.

“If you are with us, knock once.”

Christine released an audible shivering breath. Her eyes opened to the faint light. Meg’s eyes were open as well, those orbs of brown wandering back and forth.

A knock.

Meg released a gasp. A smile as big as a crescent moon had spread across her face. She quickly glanced at Christine before turning back to her mother with a gleam in her eye.

“Good,” Madame Giry whispered, “would you like to communicate with us?”

Another knock.

“Is it Sorelli?” Christine interrupted.

Hesitation, and then, two knocks.

_Dammit._

“Is Sorelli in here as well?”

She could only hear the soft breathing of the three of them. Pure silence.

Her lips thinned. 

Meg gave her an apologetic look before returning her gaze to her mother. Madame Giry kept her mind focused. “Then what is your name?”

A series of knocks followed erratically. Madame Giry soft counted every one, restarting after each moment of long silence. Christine had gotten lost already.

Her eyes widened as her face lost its once serious countenance and became something filled with mortification. “Madeleine.”

Christine glanced towards the darkness of her room. Yellow dotted the void. Madeleine.

But why? Why would Madeleine haunt such a place? Surely her death was not _that_ brutal. Her mother and father had died of illness as well, and so far, Christine had not seen them wandering.

She squeezed Madame Giry’s hand as if it would connect their energy. “Why are you here?”

Silence followed. No knocks, no whispers — nothing.

“I don’t think she knows,” the older woman whispered.

“Then is there something you need? You were in the attic… You took that blue blanket —” Madame Giry glared at her with owlish-eyes. Christine did not miss it. “What is it that you want?”

Her chest was tightening as desperation filled her voice.

The knocks were sudden, barely overlapping Christine’s questions. Christine counted this time and felt her blood chill. 

_Baby._

“Nadir never mentioned a baby,” she whispered, “why would she ask…” Christine straightened her back and took a deep breath. “Does your baby have a name?”

Immediate knocks once more.

Two knocks.

“ _B…”_

Five knocks.

_“E…”_

One knock.

_“A…”_

The door slammed open. Nadir entered, his face as solemn as ever. “Vicomtesse, your —” The man froze, studying the two women. "Who are they?"

Madame Giry stood. Her composure that had faded for a mere second was resurrected. “The Vicomtesse had invited us. I assume we should be on our way now. Meg?”

Christine stood. “But she… She…” Answers were right at her fingertips. She could not let them slip from her.

The Girys had already begun their journey out of Christine’s room. She trailed behind them, scurrying like a mouse as she attempted to catch up to them. Even as Madame Giry met her gaze, the woman kept her mouth shut. She was determined to leave — just as the other women were.

They slipped into the corridor leading to the servant’s entrance. Madame Giry finally spoke: “You remember how to contact us, don’t you?”

She could feel Nadir’s warmth behind her. He watched intently. Christine weakly nodded. “I do.”

"You will… Be safe, won't you?"

"Of course," she murmured, "why wouldn't I be?"

Madame Giry kept her lips sealed. She clenched her gloved fists. "I was just making sure."

"Well, I… I thank you." She smiled to thaw the ice. "For everything."

"I could have done more…”

"I will keep in contact." She glanced behind the woman. “You ought to wait until everyone is indoors. The staff will be busy aiding Raoul and Philippe; it will give you enough time to ride off without anyone noticing.”

Madame Giry smiled and squeezed Christine’s hands. “Write to me or send a telegram if you need anything. My door is always open.”

She took her daughter’s arm gently, the latter waving. Christine watched the both of them until their carriage was not but a black dot in the distance.

Nadir hovered behind her. "Why were those women here?" 

He sounded so much like a parent scolding their child. She bit her lip. "No reason."

He arched an eyebrow. "Lying is unbecoming of you, Vicomtesse."

Her hand ran down the rough wood of the doorframe. "I should go and greet Raoul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely fond of this chapter and I feel like it's way too short, but oh well! I guess it's better than writing something forced and overly long that I put no genuine passion or effort in. Hopefully, it's not disappointing for y'all!
> 
> THIS chapter is the main reason why this story takes place in the late 1860s. Spiritualism has been an on-and-off sort of religion/belief, usually becoming popular after violent events, such as wars. Like... post-civil war! Wow! Full circle. Obviously, France was not actually part of the Civil War (I'll talk about their involvement in another chapter), but trends like these usually spread throughout the world pretty quickly. I recommend watching Caitlin Doughty's video on spiritualism to get a full understanding of it (Yes, I'm advertising Ask a Mortician again — if there's anyone to blame for this story, it's her). 
> 
> Next chapter's gonna be a little WILD so get ready for that!
> 
> Feel free to comment!! I love hearing from y'all <3


	12. The Ball

The events of yesterday clung to her and pulled her down like millstones. It was a letter sewn into the bosom of her bodice, bright red for all to read. And yet, no one said anything. No one gave any hint of knowledge or suspicion towards her sins.

God, she needed to visit a nearby church soon; the priest would get an earful of confessions.

Each step towards the dining room felt like approaching Peter at the gates of Heaven. One word would decide her fate.

She stood at the doorway.

"Christine."

Her hand clenched the fabric of her skirts. "Good morning, Philippe."

"Come sit." She followed his command, immediately sitting in the closest dining-room chair. Philippe continued, "Do you mind explaining why Monsieur Bourienne came to me this morning frantically crying about how his wife was stabbed with a  _ fork  _ during your tea party? She had to receive stitches according to him."

"I — I —"

"You  _ told  _ us it went well," Raoul cried, "you  _ lied  _ to us."

Christine stood, the chair screeching back in response. "Because you would never believe me if I told you the truth!"

"Oh? Then what happened?" Raoul sat down, nodding his head.

"That's — That's the problem," she stuttered, "it's not  _ clear.  _ She was talking, and suddenly, the knife flew across the room and stabbed her hand. Th — Then the fork, then the table cloth…” At Raoul's skeptical look, she grew insistent. "I can prove it! The other women saw it, E — Elizabeth saw it!"

"The maid?" He asked.

She nodded vehemently. "Yes!"

Philippe hummed. "Elizabeth, is what she claims true?"

Elizabeth was silent, her eyes as wide as saucers. Each second of silence was pure agony. Finally, the maid clenched her fists and looked down. "No, monsieur."

"What? No, she's lying!" Christine turned to Elizabeth. "Tell him the truth! You were  _ there!" _

“I — I don’t —”

She grasped the maid’s shoulders. Her eyes stung with desperate tears. “Why are you lying? You  _ know  _ I haven’t gone mad!”

“'Haven’t gone mad?'” Elizabeth sounded incredulous. “I’ve heard you talking to nothing! You rant and rave about ghosts!” She tore herself from Christine’s grip and stood beside Raoul.

“Raoul,” she squeaked, “you believe me, don’t you?”

"I —" her husband hesitated, "how can I?"

It was as if she understood then and there the heavy pain of Judas' betrayal — to have someone you loved so ardently hurt you in such a way… She might as well have had her heart ripped out and shoved into a goblet.

“Raoul…”

Philippe stepped forward. “Elizabeth, take the Vicomtesse to her room.”

Elizabeth grabbed Christine’s arm, her fingers stabbing the delicate flesh. "No — Raoul, listen to me. Raoul — Raoul —" She threw herself from Elizabeth and grasped his collar. "You  _ know _ me, Raoul. Remember when Mademoiselle Martin accused me of stealing her pastries? And I insisted that I didn't? You did everything you could to ensure my innocence. And — And then, it was proven that I didn't do it; another girl did. You never lost faith in me. Why are you doing it now?"

His expression was lifeless. "That was a very different time."

He waved his hand. She practically collapsed into the arms of Elizabeth and another staff member. Their arms were as firm as steel bars. She struggled against them, writhing desperately. Her arms ached as they twisted and contorted unnaturally.

They dragged her up the stairs. Her feet slammed against each one. They threw into her bedroom. Never had it been such a dreadful place to be.

She threw herself onto her feet and rushed towards the door. Elizabeth slammed it shut as Christine’s body made contact with the wood. The door clicked softly.

“Wait…” She attempted to move the handle but it remained firm. Her breath quickened. “Raoul? Raoul —”

She slammed her shoulder against the door and hissed. The door refused to budge. They had locked it. “No, no, no, no…”

Her blood pounded in her ears. The world around her grew distorted and disfigured. She pounded her fists against her door as violently as her heart pounded against her ribcage. Breathing was difficult, too difficult. She screamed anyway. Her voice cracked and strained against itself. Her hands were red.

_ “LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT, PLEASE!  _ PLEASE,  _ PLEASE! RAOUL! RAOUL,  _ PLEASE! _ ”  _ She desperately needed to breathe, yet her body refused to do so. Her lungs would only allow her quick moments that left her craving oxygen so desperately. Aching fists began to weaken against the heavy wood door. She could not breathe, she could not think. “Please.”

Repeatedly slamming her shoulder against the wall did nothing. Screaming did nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Christine’s face felt warm. Her cheeks burned, as though there were hot coals pressing against them. Tears grew in her eyes, threatening to fall if she even dared to blink. She clenched her fists, desperate to fight back everything she had been holding back since that night. Her vision became blurry and her nose clogged. Her chest became heavy and a hiccup was forced from her mouth.

And then, everything fell apart.

Her eyes blinked on instinct and tears rolled down her face. Her mouth forced itself open as it tried to scream out. Her mouth forced itself open with her silent screams as she clutched her body with blunt but sharp fingers.

She sprinted to the balcony. Her waist flung forward but her arms kept her planted in place. Her hair fell into her face in messy coils. She hated her hair. She hated her body. She hated herself. She hated her husband. She hated the manor. 

She hated her life.

Every moment ached. Every stare, every comment, every breath.

“Angel.”

Her breath hitched. 

“Maestro.”

“Christine…”

The world before her blurred. “Is the afterlife pleasant?"

"We all find out when we meet our fate." He paused. "Why do you ask such morbid questions?" He paused again. “Oh. Oh God, Christine —”

Despite her tumultuous wave of emotions, she smiled at her bluntness. "It will not be a beautiful death, but it will be a quick one."

Her Maestro faltered. "You cannot."

"Why not?" Her body had turned to completely face her bedroom. "I can spend my afterlife with you."

"You will not find your Maestro in the afterlife, my dear."

"But I shall be a ghost. We shall haunt the halls together, and you will no longer be lonely. It would be better to spend the rest of eternity with you than to spend the rest of my mortal life with…”

"Christine, throw these foolish ideas of death away. You are a passionate woman meant to live. Life was  _ made  _ for you."

“Don’t preach to me false ideas, Maestro. You only want to prevent the inevitable; there is no point in lying now.”

“But I am. I always have been.”

Her body stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"He should have told you the truth. To continue claiming divinity would be manipulating your pain. To deny divinity would be hurting you. I do not want to hurt you, Christine.”

_ Oh. _

Her fingers squeezed the hem of her skirt. "You wouldn't hurt me."

_ Please, God, stop talking. _

“You want to believe that, but you know it is not true, my dear.”

_ Please. _

“Maestro —” 

“Christine, you need to know the truth.” 

_ No, don't say it. _

“What is it?” She whispered.

_ Don't shatter the illusion. _

“I am not a ghost,” he confessed, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

“I know,” she replied.

It was quite obvious — and yet, it hurt like Hell to hear him admit it. It was something she did not want to believe or even think of. The fact that her Maestro was not a ghost implied something that made her stomach twist; it implied that this entire time, a living man was speaking to her. A living man had been hiding away somewhere. He knew things that Christine had not shared with anyone — not even Raoul.

But then those thoughts led to other things? Where was he hiding? Did Raoul know of his existence? Her Maestro talked and acted far too formal for him to be a long-time squatter — but, then again, not every person was the same. He could very well be a well-educated man who fell into hard times. 

But those questions could be answered later. First, she had to address the biggest conundrum:

“What is your name?”

Her Maestro hesitated. “Erik,” he answered, “my name is Erik.”

“Erik,” she echoed, allowing the name to linger on her tongue a moment longer. The word repeated itself in her head as she slowly walked to the wall of her wardrobe. She sat on shaking legs.

“Is it… A pleasant name?”

“It is a lovely name,” Christine complimented, smiling despite herself, “that’s a Scandinavian name, isn’t it? Are you… Are you Scandinavian?”

Any chance for her to learn more about him was a treat to her.

“Ah, no. Erik was born in France to a French family. The name is… It is borrowed, he should say.”

“Borrowed?”

“Erik’s original name is a memory long gone by now, my dear.”

“Oh,” she rubbed her arm, “I’m so sorry.”

He chuckled. “There is no need to apologize, my dear. Erik is quite happy with his current name, anyway.” 

“Yes, but there must be  _ some _ sense of emptiness left behind, right?”

“I suppose. But knowing the name my mother gave me once upon a time does not haunt me.”

“That’s a good thing,” she replied, nodding weakly.

“How are you feeling now, my dear?”

She swallowed the thick bile in her throat and nodded. “I am… I can breathe again.”

“Good, good. As long as you can function properly, Erik will feel comfortable.” He clicked his tongue. “What else should you like to talk about?”

It came out of nowhere. “May I see you?”

Erik spluttered, and she felt her heart sink. Had she crossed a line? Oh God, she had offended him — of course, she did. She should have been grateful for merely hearing his name. To ask to see him so soon —

He cleared his throat. “Erik —”

Her door clicked and the doorknob slowly turned. Christine gasped as her stomach dropped and rushed towards her bed. She threw herself face-first onto the mattress and feigned tears. One eye was kept uncovered to watch the door. Raoul entered first, followed by Elizabeth carrying a parcel in her arms. While the maid had a rather plain look on her face, Raoul’s was darkened by a sense of solemnity Christine had grown used to. His hand gripped her shoulder and shook her. “Wake up.”

Christine slowly sat up, keeping her eyes focused on both of them. One word from them hinting that they knew of Erik and she swore her heart would burst.

_ Breathe woman, breathe. _

__ “I thought we should get you ready for the dinner party ahead of time. Especially with your outburst…"

Elizabeth tossed the parcel upon her bed and hurried over to Christine. In a moment, she had lifted Christine from the floor and began undressing her. Christine's eyes remained on Raoul.

“I don’t understand,” she said, yelping when Elizabeth’s stinging, ice-cold hands touched her bare arms, “why are you allowing me to attend if you believe me…”

“It would cause suspicion if you didn’t appear at the party. I wouldn’t want to stir up any drama,” Raoul answered plainly.

“O — Of course,” she whispered.

Elizabeth fastened the buttons of her dress. He continued, "I will want you to keep your duties as hostess, of course. This is your chance to redeem yourself after this  _ last  _ incident. You're a charming woman, after all."

Christine was released from the maid's grip. She was blindly led to the mirror. The blood drained from her face. That pink gown reflected in the mirror. Its gracefully embroidered lace was still perfectly preserved, wrapped around her bodice and skirt. Her hand flinched from one of the bows. “Where did you —”

“I had to keep it!” Raoul explained. “It was so lovely on you. I couldn’t believe you wanted to throw it out while we were packing.”

It had been her debutante gown. Her papa had worked long hours just to buy it. The pink silk was still as bright as the day it had arrived. It was meant to reveal some form of false wealth and grandeur which Christine all but had. She never wore it after that party.

She had meant to burn it.

Each piece of thread was lined with blood. No matter how often a maid scrubbed the gown, there was always going to be  _ something  _ keeping those memories clung tight to it. Why Raoul had kept it was far beyond her.

She fingered the lace that lined the bodice. “Raoul, I can’t wear this.”

He stepped behind her and placed his hands over her shoulders. She felt a chill run up her spine as his hips grazed her back. “Why not?”

“It — Raoul, you  _ know  _ why.”

“It’s only a dress, Lotte.”

Christine spun around and glared into his eyes. “Raoul, please.”

"You're acting out again, Lotte," he warned, his eyes narrowing.

"Is it acting out if I am standing my ground?" She retorted. "This dress makes me uncomfortable. I have a right to refuse to wear it. I have plenty of evening gowns you can select from if you so choose."

"Just wear the dress. I don't see what the problem is!"

"You  _ promised  _ me, Raoul. You told me I would still be the mistress of my own actions — that I wouldn’t be subdued,” she stuttered as she watched Raoul’s fist clench and shake, “the boy I knew at Perros wouldn’t lie to me about —”

His arm raised in a flash. It froze in place, stopped by an invisible force that only Raoul could comprehend. Christine kept her body back, her heart racing at a deadly speed. Raoul slowly lowered his arm, releasing a deep, strained breath. “You will wear the dress and that’s final.”

The door slammed. 

She waited several seconds before speaking. “He’s gone now,” she whispered.

“Why do you stay here?”

Christine blinked. He sounded so much like Nadir — it was discomforting. “W — What a question…” she stammered.

“Erik heard the things that had been done to you, my dear. It is… It is abhorrent.”

“Erik, please,” she squeaked, “let’s not talk about this right now. Especially before the dinner party.”

"You are only delaying the inevitable."

“And I will  _ keep  _ doing so until I run out of time to delay it.” She huffed and smoothed down her gown. Her body winced at the contact. “Good evening. I shall see you later.”

He did not respond.

Her fingers buzzed as she closed the door. Energy wanted to burst from her fingers like fireworks. She thanked her gloves for preventing her from chewing at her delicate skin.

She was led to the ballroom. "Warm" was not a word she thought she would ever use to describe a room in the manor, yet the ballroom still managed to earn it. 

Velvet-colored walls paired with a golden chandelier and embraced her. A glittering chandelier hovered above it all. She was blinded by the diamonds that hung off of it. For a moment, she almost believed she was in the wrong home. This room was filled with life; everything else… 

Guests began to pour in and filled the room with a familiar feeling of stuffiness. When she was younger, she despised it — now, after so much time in isolation, she almost dared to say she loved it. The piles upon piles of chatter could be left behind, though.

She stood close enough to the wall to greet guests as they passed by but far enough to avoid them simultaneously. Christine did not recognize half of them.

_ A kitten amongst lions. _

“Christine! Christine!”

A familiar short, blond-haired girl rushed towards her. Her pastel pink gown bounced with each step. Christine smiled weakly. "Cécile."

The girl was a guest at her wedding. A cousin of a cousin sort of situation. She was the only one who seemed to notice Christine's paled and slacked face. All that night, she did everything in her ability to make Christine laugh. It certainly worked, given the girl's sweet personality. An angel, that one.

“This is such a wonderful event! Thank  _ you  _ so much for inviting me!” She fluttered her fan excitedly.

Christine smiled weakly. “And thank  _ you  _ for your presence, my lady.”

“I hope  _ my  _ future husband will allow me such a spoiled life,” Jammes sighed.

Christine bit her lip to prevent sputtering. “Are you seeing any potential beaus at the moment?” 

Cécile Jammes was nineteen-years-old, which, with her standing in society, was a decent enough age to begin considering courting. However, considering how society was changing, the age of marriage was steadily rising. Who knew, perhaps little Jammes would be a progressive young lady.

Said little Jammes’ face flush as her fan fluttered once more. “Well, I…”

Christine arched an eyebrow. “So you have…”

“No! No, I haven’t, I just —”

“You cannot lie to a married woman like  _ me,  _ my lady, I already have experience in this sort of field.” Christine’s wolfish grin widened.

“I’m not  _ lying,  _ per se,” she mumbled.

She hummed. “Then what, pray tell, is it?”

“Well, Vicomtesse, it is… Well, the man and I haven’t necessarily attempted courting — nor have we necessarily…  _ talked.” _ Jammes face was as red as a rose. That damned fan continued fluttering.

Christine frowned. “So is it a fondness of sorts?”

“I suppose,” Jammes answered, gently fingering her necklace, “we have spoken. Once. But…”

“But you feel it has changed you,” Christine finished.

“It transformed me, I would say.”

“Yes, ‘transform’ certainly is a more accurate word,” she murmured, “it affects you in such maddening ways.” Christine blinked and cleared her throat, turning to Jammes with a thinned smile. “Who is it?”

“Duke Touchard,” she squeaked.

Christine angled her head to see the man. He was… Fine enough. A blonde-haired man who appeared about the same age as Jammes. If there was anything disagreeable, it was the fact that he attempted to make himself appear as a dandy when he clearly was not. The corset he so clearly wore did not fit his figure; his natural form would be much more superior.

“Really?” She said finally. It was much nicer.

“He’s so handsome!” Jammes giggled, fluttering her fan over her face like a butterfly.

“I shall… I shall speak to him,” Christine said softly.

Jammes gasped and turned to her. “Oh, really? You would!?”

“I can try.” She forced a smile.

“Oh, Vicomtesse, you are an angel on Earth!” Jammes squealed and wrapped her arms around Christine with the force of a thousand Amazonians. At the realization of her impropriety, she flushed and released Christine. “Apologies.”

Christine easily guided through the guests, finding it rather easy as she was ignored by them. The introduction was swift and just as easy thanks to Jammes and the Duke filling the conversation. She slipped away and rested near a wall.

As if on Cupid’s cue, a waltz began and the young, blossoming couple walked to the center of the ballroom. Other dancers combined and spun with the ease of lilypads over a pond. She imagined, for a moment, that Erik had not been locked away. He was free as a butterfly and in the throng of dancers before her. Though, he was not alone. She danced beside him, hand in hand. They were two insects flying free from their cocoons at the perfect time, right at the beginning of Spring.

It made her heart twist.

Nadir slid beside her, carrying two champagne flutes. He inclined his head to her and smiled. "Enjoying the party?"

"Oh," she snorted, "it's something."

"Yes, the nobility truly do look like fools in the eyes of people like us, hm?" He handed her one of the glasses which she happily took.

Christine nodded as she sipped the beverage. "I don't believe I will ever get used to their mannerisms and behaviors."

"Good. They are not becoming of you personally, Vicomtesse."

_ Neither is lying. _

She bit her tongue before those words could tumble from her mouth. Instead, she studied him more carefully, allowing herself to focus on her other thoughts. "Nadir, how familiar are you with these events?"

"Uncomfortably. I usually stay outside and welcome the guests, and then monitor the halls for any drunken wanderers." He paused and glanced at her, smiling. "Until you. You're the first one to ever allow me to join in on the festivities."

“Oh.” Her smile softened. “Well, I'm glad you came."

"As am I."

A peal of laughter came from a corner of the room. Madame Bourienne, out of all women, had shown up. Any wound on her hand was hidden by her silk gloves. Either she was as brave as Hell or an absolute idiot — no inbetween. Women surrounded her with a look of passionate devotion that Christine would have associated with the disciples of Jesus. It was both hilarious and pitiful.

Raoul waved to Nadir. The man huffed and turned sadly to Christine. "Duty calls."

She grinned as he walked off. "Don't have too much fun without me!"

The inner warmth she felt tapered quickly. Alone once more, it seemed.

Another dance began, and Christine attempted to drown herself in the music. Haydn's Farewell Symphony. A lovely piece.

Something grabbed her shoulders. For a moment, she almost laughed and scolded whoever had surprised her. She glanced at the assailant's hands and frowned. Olive. They slid down her shoulders and grazed her chest, cold like a drop of sweat down her spine.

She dropped her glass. The shattered glass was deafening.

It was as if she had dipped her body into a cold, tar-like liquid. She was drowning — with every breath, she sucked more water into her lungs. It burned.

Her heart was racing. Her face was hot. Oh, good God, she needed to leave. She needed  _ air — _

“Lotte.”

Christine spun around, gasping. Raoul. It was only Raoul.

“Lotte, what has come over you? You look like Death itself.”

_ So, he does not see it. _

“I…” Her throat was terribly dry. She still could not find the air to breathe.

His hand rested on her shoulder. That terrible glove was piercingly hot against her shoulder. “Philippe said something, so I came to check on you. He does not want you sticking out like a sore thumb.”

“Apologies,” she mumbled; though, her tongue felt sharper at the mention of the Comte.

“Perhaps you should —”

“Go and gather some air?” Christine said suddenly. “Yes, that sounds like a wondrous idea!”

She gripped the fabric of her skirts and hurried past Raoul. The walls were blurred as she practically ran with passion. Only one thing was clear to her: her bedroom. Never had she grinned so widely as she opened her bedroom door and allowed her eyes to settle on that hideous yellow wall.

“Erik, I’m here.”

She felt as light as a nymph by a brook. This was wonderful, tremendous, astonishing — God, she would need a dictionary just to describe such a feeling!

Christine heard him gasp. “My dear, I hadn’t expected you to be back so soon… Has something happened at the ball?”

“Oh, no. Well —” goodness, she was talking like Jammes. She moved closer to the wall and rested on her knees. “Something happened. But it doesn’t matter. Raoul simply thinks I am taking a breath of fresh air.”

“Ah. So your Maestro does not have you long, then.”

Her lips thinned. “Unfortunately.”

“Your Maestro supposes that —”

“How can I see you?”

An exhale. “Ah.

“I know you were hesitant, but I…” She released a shivering sigh, “it is affecting me in such maddening ways.”

“You are some sort of Psyche, certainly.”

“I could never be as beautiful,” she chuckled, “but I’m sure I could beat her curiosity with the power of ten.”

He chuckled. It was like a wondrous, tinkling windchime. “I'm quite certain of that, my dear.”

“So?”

“Push the dresser away.”

She frowned. “Pardon?”

“You will not be able to see your Maestro unless you move the dresser.”

After a moment of more confusion, she conceded. It was quite heavy, suspiciously so, no thanks to the obnoxious amount of clothes Raoul had insisted on buying for her — behind her back, mind you. It screeched with the most horrific notes, not unlike that of a banshee’s. But it was all worth it when she finally saw the full entrance of Erik’s so-called abode.

A rectangle, about the size of any other average door, was carved into the wall. The hideous yellow wallpaper had faintly peeled around the edges. There was no doorknob.

“How do I open the door?”

“Simply push the door. It shall open.”

“Oh.”

Now. Now, she felt that wriggling eel of worry in her stomach. There was nothing  _ to  _ be worried about. She would not judge him, no matter what, of course, there was still something that held her back.

_ Foolish woman. _

Christine stood face-to-face with the door and stood with a firm stance. She took a deep breath and opened it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUNNNNN


	13. The Rage of Achilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind." (A Midsummer Night's Dream, William Shakespeare)

Her angel, her  _ Erik,  _ sat at the very end of the room. She spotted his eyes first — they were an unnatural, bright yellow that stuck out against the darkness. They were beautiful, yes, but what human had such a color?

_ Like candles,  _ she thought.

The next sight was his face. It was covered by a messily cut cloth, stained and bloodied. It covered his forehead and nose, as well as the left side of his face. What little flesh she could see was grey, lined, and thin, like centuries-old paper. His hair was scant, flowing from his head from small, black clumps that could hardly hold onto his scalp in the first place. In what Christine assumed was an attempt at normalcy, his shoulder-length hair was tied back with a white ribbon. His body was horrifically thin. The white shirt he wore hardly fit; it billowed out against his torso. It was just as grimy and bloody as the cloth over his face and appeared to be several years, perhaps  _ decades  _ old.

But what stuck out to her the most was the irrevocable, ardent sadness that emanated from him. He was a pitiable man, one worth shedding tears for. With his covered and supposedly disfigured face, to his horrible scars — her poor, unhappy Erik.

With a deep breath, she stepped forward. 

“Hello,” she whispered.

Erik pressed himself harder against the wall. “You… You…”

Christine took another step. “Yes?”

“You are real,” he gasped.

She nodded, smiling weakly. “I am.”

"You are beautiful."

The words seemed to fall from his lips before he could trap them. They shared a look of shock. Erik stood in a flurry, and nearby, something metal clattered. "Erik apologizes! He had not meant to —"

There were many responses she could have given. She could have stormed up to him and slapped him plain across the face, or she could have closed the entrance and finally told Raoul. Instead, she simply smiled and chuckled. "Oh, oh, no, I'm not that pretty," she dismissed, "it must be the light."

“Nonsense,” he rebuffed, “if anything, the lighting helps enhance you.”

“Does it?” she whispered, brushing a loose coil behind her ear.

“God must have been in quite a great mood when they created you.”

Her face warmed in the blink of an eye. She felt her hand twitch, desperately trying to fight to reach up and touching her face. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she spoke, “You as well.”

Erik paused before bursting into peals of melodious laughter. He clapped his hands and shook his head. “I knew you had a great sense of humor, my dear, but my goodness…”

“I wasn’t kidding,” she snapped, clenching her fists.

“Of course, of course.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re  _ doubting  _ me.”

“Why should I not?” He asked, raising a covered eyebrow. “You have eyes and decent vision, do you not? You have seen Erik — he is right in front of you.”

“Yes, my eyes work quite well. And there are more blessings that God can give to a person than just physical attributes,” she retorted.

He cocked his head and arched a covered eyebrow. "You are a strange woman indeed."

"No stranger than you."

She moved forward and stepped on something. Erik stiffened and held his arms out as if to stop her from looking down. "My dear, please do not —"

Beneath her foot was a thick, iron chain. It certainly had some age to it, but still holding strong. Christine gasped and picked it up. "Erik," she said in a voice barely above a whisper, "what is this — what —"

"Please, Christine, for your own health, just put it down."

Her eyes followed the chain up to the metal cuffs that shimmered around Erik's partially hidden wrists. Any wise person would know what those items meant. The symbol had been used for decades; for some, it was a normal item that was part of their normal life; for others, it brought fear and degradation. It all depended on how one used them.

"Erik…" she whispered.

There were several things she wanted to ask. Why was he there? How long had he been there? Did anyone know?

_ Did  _ Raoul  _ know? _

All of those words fell dead in her mouth, only a cold pit in her stomach. As she swallowed the lump in her throat, Erik sighed and sank to the floor.

"Erik should not have done this," he muttered, "now his Christine is heartbroken, ruined."

She dropped the chain and sniffled. “No. No, not at all.”

Sadness had burned away like the oil from a lamp. It, however, still burned and that burning became a passionate anger. Anger at Raoul, anger at Philippe, anger at the  _ world  _ for its injustices towards her Maestro,  _ her Erik. _

__ “Wait here,” she instructed, “I will be right back.”

“Christine —”

She slammed the door behind it, making sure everyone was located elsewhere before slipping outside and searching for the shed. The wooden door was stubborn. Locked.

Luckily for her, the wood was old — very much so. It did not take much for her to  _ incidentally  _ ram her elbow against the door several times. It hurt like hell, certainly, but it was worth it. The wood crumbled like ancient stone. The axe shimmered in the moonlight.

Her return to her bedroom was silent. Hopefully, no one would dare say anything pertaining to a lady wielding an axe with the look of Achilles’ rage in her eyes.

She opened her door much more gently. Erik’s eyes widened at the glint of the axe.

“My dear…” he squeaked, “what in God’s name —

"Pull on the chain," she ordered, "put some tension on it."

"My dear, I do not think —"

Christine huffed. "I refuse to allow you to be chained like some… Some  _ animal.  _ If you won't allow me to break your cuffs, this is the next best thing. Now, will you  _ please  _ pull the chain?"

He acquiesced, sighing as he pulled the chain taut. Christine adjusted her grip on the axe and took a deep breath. She lifted the axe over her head and struck the chain repeatedly. With another hearty swing, it snapped in two.

She heaved and dropped the axe beside her. "There," she gasped.

Erik looked down at his wrists. He was still in bondage, yes, but it was certainly less than before. He felt…  _ Lighter. _

__ "My dear… I — Erik thanks you."

"Don't," she murmured, walking to her bed and placing the axe beneath it, "it was an obligation."

She returned to him, her shadow covering his once visible form. She gently sat on her knees, her skirt pooling around her. "Though, it would make you and I happier if I could take those cuffs off as well."

"It is not — It is a bad idea, my dear. But for your safety, I would avoid such measures."

"Why would my safety come into this?"

Erik chuckled coldly. "Well, Erik is sure your husband would not be pleased if he found out you unchained him."

_ So, Raoul does know. _

A droplet of cold sweat ran down her back. "I see."

"Erik was selfish tonight, making you risk your safety just to see him. He knows your eyes must feel accosted, but he fears the repercussions of this more than your reaction to his form."

"It's not selfish," Christine said immediately, "I'm — I'm glad I got to see you. Besides, I promised you that Raoul would never know about this, about us."

"But he will find out one day," Erik muttered, "what will you do then?"

She pursed her lips. "I don't know. But I know you'll be long gone from here before that."

"If that is what you wish to believe."

"I don't just believe it; I  _ know  _ it."

Erik still appeared doubtful. As he opened his mouth, there was a soft knock at her door.

"Vicomtesse? Your husband would like to know what is taking you so long," a soft-spoken maid squeaked.

Christine cursed under her breath before turning to the door. "Tell him I'm just touching myself up. I shall be back soon."

"Yes, madame."

The two waited a couple of moments until they were sure the maid was out of earshot. Christine turned to Erik and smiled apologetically. 

"I would stay here all night if I could," she admitted.

"No, no. You need to return to your world."

Christine scoffed as she stood. "Please,  _ this  _ is hardly  _ close _ to my world." She walked to the doorway and stopped, turning to him one last time. "If it would please you, I would like to see you again tomorrow."

Erik gaped at her. He fidgeted with his feet and nodded. "It would please me greatly."

And the door closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN DUN DUN DUN


	14. No More Dreaming of the Dead As if Death Itself Was Undone

Something whispered in her ear.

Christine spun around, the grass beneath her feet rustling. The Sun was warm against her bare flesh. It leaked through the thin material of her chemise, leaving nothing to the cold. Trees rustled in the wind and birds sang sweet harmonies. Butterflies fluttered in the sky, hungry for sweet nectar.

She began walking through the garden, smiling as she did so. Spring's sweet melody had been missed. It had been cold and grey for so long… Persephone's return was certainly welcome.

There was a small alcove in the garden. It was surrounded by trees and ivy and always smelled of fresh flowers. There was a perfect balance of sunlight and shadows that fell over it, leaving a sense of equilibrium in such a chaotic world. Christine stepped near it, pressing a hand against one of the trees' rough bark.

She froze.

A woman sat on the alcove's bench. Her flesh was pale, and her cheeks were the tint of freshly grown roses. The gold dress she wore shimmered in the sunlight, contrasting the deep red book in her lap. In front of her stood a young boy. He faced away from Christine, holding up a white lily to the woman with a sense of childish reverence.

"Claudette!"

The woman's gaze turned from the boy whom she stared at with a bored look of neutrality. She looked up at Christine.

Christine gasped.

Her body was coated in sweat. The fabric of her nightgown was glued to her skin. At any moment, she felt as if she might vomit all over herself and the bed.

Water. She needed water.

She slipped from her bed and stumbled forward. Her legs felt like liquid. Shaking hands grabbed her chamberpot. She kept her head over it as she continued to heave. There were moments where she gagged but nothing ever escaped her. Christine squeezed her eyes shut.

Sick, she had to be sick — that was all.

She wiped the drool that had accumulated and slowly sank to the cold, wooden floor. It cooled her off immensely. Her eyes fluttered shut as the night attempted to sing her back to sleep. A soft fluttering prevented that.

Christine slowly sat up. A butterfly. A butterfly had managed to fly into her room. She slowly approached it. The insect showed neither interest nor apprehension. She leapt into the air and cupped it in her hands. It fluttered around as she lowered her arms to her chest but then, became still.

Her hands opened just barely — only enough for her to catch a glimpse. She frowned. The insect's wings were drooping, the stamina it once had rapidly fading.

Christine opened her hands completely. The butterfly had collapsed onto its side and was barely twitching. As quickly as its wings had fluttered, the butterfly began decomposing, the quick sensation tickling her palms. She yelped and dropped it.

She watched as its remains turned into nothing.

_That was certainly a sign._

Christine heaved and rested a hand against her chest. She could hear as her heartbeat slowed from its adrenaline-filled high.

"Hello —"

She yelped as something cold whipped across her back. It was no different from someone bumping into her blindly, yet it left a lingering pain that was quite unusual in such situations.

Another icy whip slammed against her shoulder. Christine yelped once more and jumped back. A peal of laughter slashed her ear.

“Erik,” she whispered, “was that you?”

Silence.

“Listen, if this is some sort of sick joke —” she cut herself off.

No, Erik did not joke in such a way. He shared quips and sharp-tongued sarcasm ever since they had truly met. Once, perhaps, he would have done that odd trick with his voice but now…

She hurried to the wall and pressed her ear against it. “Erik, are you awake?”

She had never craved his voice more in her life. Some sort of sign — something to prove that he was there with her, beside her in a metaphorical sense.

And yet, there was nothing.

After a moment of agonizing silence, she sighed. In a way, she felt stupid even resorting to this.

She held her fists close to her chest. “Who's in here with me?”

She listened to each creak of wood and screech of pipes. Her breath filled the spaces between them.

More silence.

She attempted to remember what more Madame Giry had done. The woman had reached out her hand

Pursing her lips, Christine cleared her throat. "If you're still here, give me a sign. Touch my shoulder, knock on something… Anything."

The only noise she could hear was the shivering exhale of her breath. She was not alone — she _knew_ that. It was a tingling presence, the feeling of one soul beside another. _That,_ that was unmistakable.

"Don’t be afraid. I just want to help you," she whispered, "please."

She eyed the vanity. Her own reflection looked back at her with timid, wide eyes. She had never felt so small. Swallowing the bile forming in her mouth, Christine slowly approached the mirror.

“They — They say that ghosts can get trapped in mirrors. Is that what happened to you? Are you trying to communicate with me?”

She reached the vanity and held out a hesitant hand to the mirror.

A deathly pale hand burst from the mirror and seized her wrist. Christine's chest erupted in painful fear. It was painfully cold and felt as if it would burn her flesh. The hand twisted her forearm and forced her to the floor. Her elbow and jaw slammed into the vanity and harmonized in pain. Slipping from the smooth wood, she fell to the floor. Christine crawled across the ground, scrambling for the door. Using the doorknob to pull herself up, she quickly threw herself out of the room and slammed the door shut. Her fingers fumbled over the lock as she heaved dry sobs.

The lock finally clicked, and she sighed in hesitant relief.

She backed away and pressed her back against the wall. Her body shuddered with each breath.

And then —

Footsteps.

Christine threw herself from the wall, clutching her body. A figure turned down the hall. She frowned as she softly padded across the floor. Her eyes caught a clearer image of the figure flitting away once more. 

“Papa?”

It made no sense, yet it looked just like him. The hair, the skin.

The figure kept walking. Christine grunted, a sudden feeling of determination filling her bones. 

It finally stopped in front of a door. She vaguely recognized it; it was one of extra, abandoned rooms according to Nadir. If guests ever stayed the night, they would stay there. Why was she led here?

Christine held out a hand to the figure, attempting to touch its — his? — shoulder. Her hand dipped into something impalpable and cold — terribly cold. The figure dissolved, and the door opened. A woman stood in the center of the room.

She recognized her in an instant.

The attic. The smell of blood. The blue blanket.

She was not human, Christine now knew that very well. She was a mimicry of a human, a faded memory of what something would _think_ a human would look like.

She smelled of soil that had been recently rained on. Another scent stung Christine's nose — a smell she had become familiar with: rot. Her hands were left in such a way that they could not be anything more than thinned joints, broken bones, and withered flesh. Her fingers moved unnaturally, clicking with the disjointed, sudden movements of a corpse attempting to fight rigor mortis. In fact, her entire body mimicked such movements. She took a step forward. Her leg clicked and the thin flesh wrapped around the limb snapped in half like a stick.

Christine stumbled back. Her lungs burned. The muscles behind her eyes ached from holding them open.

Oh God. She could not blink.

Christine held her arms out in front of her as if her palms could stop the creature from getting any closer. "I don’t know where your baby is," she forced out.

The woman's mouth widened, and out came a horrific groaning. Her throat rumbled and emitted a croaking that was intermixed with her keening.

She was wailing. It was deafening, horrible. 

Christine's legs gave way beneath her. 

Her voice slipped through the cracks between her fingers, sinking into her ears and banging against her eardrums.

Was this even real? Had she finally gone mad as her doctor and Raoul had feared?

Christine rested her forehead against the cool floor, continuing to desperately cover her ears.

And then, it stopped.

The roaring waves of sound had halted, the sea becoming worryingly still. Hurried footsteps approached her.

“Christine?”

Raoul.

She raised her head.

He and several servants had surrounded her. They watched with curiosity and concern. Philippe, however, had a dead stare. 

She crawled towards him, using the fabric of his nightclothes to pull her polluted body to her feet. He was an anchor which the crashing ship of her body could rely on. 

There was sobbing in her ear.

“What happened?” He murmured. So nonchalant. Too nonchalant.

"Raoul, I saw it, I saw it, _I saw it —"_ she began sobbing hysterically. She shook his shoulders violently.

"Lotte…"

"She was horrible…" she wailed, "she was broken — she… She wanted her baby…"

Raoul frowned. "Her baby?"

"Yes! Her _baby!_ She had the blue blanket —"

"Lotte, you're hysterical," Raoul interrupted.

She loosened her grip. "R — Raoul, have you heard _anything?_ Are you blind?"

He pushed past her and looked to the servants. "Elizabeth?"

The small maid pushed past the others. "Yes, sir?"

"See to it that Christine is taken back to her room and doesn't get back out of bed.” He ignored Christine's cry and turned to Nadir, who had been standing behind them. “And you, Khan, get a bottle of Laudanum and Dr. Blanchet."

A hand grasped his cheek and turned his head towards Christine. Her eyes appeared wider than before. “Raoul, please —”

He tore her hand from him as if it revolted him. There was no remorse in his eyes. “You can’t try this again.”

And it happened once more. The screaming, the sobbing, the begging. Raoul felt hollow.

“What were you thinking?”

He turned to Nadir, his brown eyes like pools of acid. Raoul shrugged. “It was the best I could do.”

“‘The best thing you could…’” he scoffed and shook his head, “The best you could do? What about — Hell, I don’t know — deescalating the situation?”

“You can’t just _deescalate_ hysteria —”

He laughed coldly. “I’m sure you can.” He sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Listen, I don’t want to argue with you —”

"If you knew your damn place and did your job right, we wouldn't have this argument, would we?"

Nadir's fists clenched. "If you _loved your wife enough_ to know that this damned hellhole is unhealthy for her —"

_"SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH!"_ Raoul roared, slapping the man clean across the cheek. "I _love_ Christine, and you have no right to claim otherwise."

The Persian released a shuddering breath. He was not afraid of such berating; he had experienced it many times throughout the years. It was the familiarity that sent ice through his veins.

There would be no arguing; not tonight, at least.

"I'll get what you need," he muttered, pushing past the Vicomte.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, Hm, Hm.
> 
> Y'all ever got harassed by several ghosts at once? Not fun. Not fun at all.
> 
> Of course I had to put a Florence and Machine reference as a chapter title at some point — she is my lord and savior, I have to worship her (/j celebrity worship is bad kids).
> 
> Comments and kudos feed the cryptid!!! Love y'all <3


	15. Snow White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mild racism
> 
> If this could possibly trigger you, skip the lines between "Dr. Blanchet smiled at Nadir’s comment..." and "The Persian arched an eyebrow..."

She was tied to the bed.

One of the gardeners had extra rope. The hardest task was simply keeping the Vicomtesse still enough. She was a kicker, that was for certain. Had she been in such a situation, she would have given up immediately. It was rare for a woman to be so spirited. But then again, the Vicomtesse was mad. Madwomen always had a kick to them that no other women did.

The Vicomtesse's skin was sickeningly pale, paler than her ivory skin already was. She was covered in a layer of sweat and the unders of her eyes were a deep purple. Her face was constantly contorted as she sobbed and begged.

And Elizabeth had to watch it all.

She was not one to take pleasure from others’ pain. The mere sight of opened wounds made her squeamish, and blood made her head faint. To watch the Vicomtesse writhe like some possessed creature and wail like a banshee made her heart twist. 

But it would all be over soon, hopefully. The doctor would come and feed the Vicomtesse whatever magic medicine she needed — everything would be back to normal.

But she doubted that.

One dose of drugs did not cure madness. If the Vicomte and that damned doctor knew what was right, they would send that madwoman away to an asylum and never allow her to be free. Then, everything would be back to normal. Everything would be peaceful and silent. No more screaming, no more ridiculous claims of ghosts — just pure peace.

But hoping was for fools.

Elizabeth gently dipped the cloth in her hand into the water basin before her. Despite his wife’s state, the Vicomte demanded that the Vicomtesse be doted on and cared for. She did not know what love the Vicomte held for the woman, but it was a strange one — one filled with contradictions.

She rested the cloth over the Vicomtesse’s forehead to cool her sweating body. The feral inhumanity that once filled her eyes fell away. “You can't keep me tied here forever."

The maid rolled her eyes and picked up the water basin. "You're right. But if it were my decision, I would keep you here."

"You  _ know  _ I'm telling the truth, Elizabeth," she hissed, "you've heard the strange sounds that echo throughout the manor; you've seen furniture and baubles placed in places that they shouldn't be. And you  _ sure as hell  _ know about this manor and its past. You're not stupid, Elizabeth," she paused and let her icy glare linger, "tell me, how old are you?"

"Nineteen," she replied coldly.

"You told me you were employed here for the past two years. That means you  _ know  _ what happened to Sorelli. You know —"

__ Her heart rose to her throat as the water basin in her hands fell to the floor and shattered. The woman no longer screamed or protested; she simply stared at Elizabeth with piercing eyes that seemed to read every little detail off of her. Under that scrutinizing gaze, Elizabeth felt herself begin to crack.

* * *

Dr. Blanchet arrived in the early morning hours. His expression was one of solemnity as he entered the room.

"I worried this would happen."

Christine bit the inside of her cheek. Raoul approached the doctor and placed a hand on his shoulder. “She was doing just fine before —”

A lie, a horrible, horrible lie.

“It was all so sudden. We heard her scream and then…”

His words droned on and on. Endless lies, all made to preserve their name. It was one thing to act as if nothing had happened, it was another to act as if he had not seen the signs that something would happen to her eventually.

Dr. Blanchet retrieved two bottles of liquids. The glass clicked together, and the liquid swayed side to side. The first bottle contained a simple, clear liquid, which he inserted into a syringe with a shimmering needle.

The needle pierced her skin, pushing past the several layers and stabbing her muscle. Immediately, she felt her eyes flutter as the sounds of the world around her dived underwater. Her movements grew languid as she tried to read the label of what the next bottle of liquid he was giving her was.

There was a metallic tapping. A spoon?

Dr. Blanchet held up the blurry item and pressed it against her lips. Christine cringed and tried to move away. The smell of whatever he held up to her was pungent. It stung her nose and made her sinuses spark.

"Open your mouth, woman," Dr. Blanchet said, his smothered voice finally breaking through the blockage in her ears.

A cold hand gripped her jaw and easily forced it open. Her muscles felt so loose she could hardly protest. The liquid poured into her mouth, and Christine's body began kicking violently. Whatever he had given her stung her mouth and was thicker than molasses. 

A set of hands grasped her shins and forced her legs down. Her arms which punched the bed were held down as well. It was when she was forced a glass of water that she calmed. The remnants of that awful concoction still remained in her mouth but it no longer stung with a bittersweet tang.

Dr. Blanchet and the servants who held her down left the room soon after. She was alone with only the wall as company as her mind began to blur. Black spots dotted her vision. One began to warp itself and slowly formed into a more coherent shape. Colors filled its wings and, like magic, they began to flutter. A butterfly. She watched as the insect remained perched on the wardrobe, looking around curiously at the world it had just entered. Another appeared, and, soon, she could no longer keep track of all of the insects at once. It was a pleasant sight, though. They were the only clear thing in her vision and were a wondrous distraction.

Dr. Blanchet departed from the manor and returned the next day. He always spoke to Philippe and Raoul after his visit with Christine. What they spoke of she had no clue. It was a repetitive process Christine grew used to. Dr. Blanchet would arrive, he would feed her the concoction, and he would leave. Little else happened that day except for Nadir’s visits and, her most favorite, Erik speaking and singing to her. 

Her dreams were filled with his voice and  _ him.  _ His figure was drowned in shadow as he would spin her around the ballroom that she had reunited with Raoul in. Gone were the dreams of locked away memories and secrets she could barely comprehend. Her consciousness only thought of warmth. Warmth and Erik.

It was the fourth day of Dr. Blanchet’s visits that things became worrying. She began to feel sick. Her body grew hot and sweat would constantly form at her brow.

"Whatever concoction you fed her gave her a damned fever," Nadir spat as he ran his hand over the glistening forehead. He, Raoul, and Dr. Blanchet had all convened in her bedroom to discuss the woman. She had not spoken a single word.

Dr. Blanchet smiled at Nadir’s comment. "Ah, that's normal, you see. The medicine I gave her is clearing the vapors from her body.  _ That  _ is why she broke out in a fever. I'm sure such a concept is somewhat…  _ New  _ to your people and country of origin."

The Persian arched an eyebrow. "It isn't, actually."

"Well, there you go!" Dr. Blanchet clapped his hands, causing Christine to jump, and stood. "I shall get some tea for us, gentlemen. Raoul, shall you lead me to the kitchen?"

Raoul looked hesitantly at Christine before turning back to Dr. Blanchet. "Of course."

The door shut, leaving Nadir and Christine by their lonesome. The Persian immediately stood from his chair and grabbed the first and nearest bottle of medicine Dr. Blanchet had given Christine. The first was an odorless, clear liquid with the viscosity of water. The second… The second made his heart race quicker. The liquid inside of it was an odd, pale orange hue and was incredibly viscous. When he unscrewed the bottle, an awful, pungent smell burst forth. He wrinkled his nose and held the damned thing away from him. It smelled of alcohol and all sorts of herbs that not even Nadir could identify.

"What the hell is he giving you?" He whispered.

Christine shifted but was stifled by the ropes which still kept her tied to the bed. Studying the beads of sweat upon her pale forehead, Nadir did all he could to suppress the urge to throw the several bottles of medicine away. He wanted to protect her. That was all he wanted to do. But, good God, it was difficult to pry her from the clawed grasp of this damned manor. Christine felt the strong urge to remain and be the good wife that was not physically possible, and Raoul felt  _ something  _ that made him keep his arms around her and whisper sweet nothings. Watching their love was like watching an animal with a festering wound. You wanted to help it, but there was not much you could do when the wound was filled with flies, maggots, and other curious scavengers who were having a feast. The right thing to do would be to kill it painlessly. But the emotional weight of it all? The pitiful glances? That was what made you hesitate when pulling the trigger.

Christine was rotting away under the pressures of the manor, and all Nadir could bring himself to do was watch. He could take her and him away from this hellhole now, but Christine's reaction was what made him hesitant. Not even he was willing to kidnap a woman.

For now, all he could do was hold her hand and pray that she wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes.
> 
> Next chapter might be a little later than the usual time I've been posting aagh. This last week of school was a bit stressful and that, in general, stifled my creative motivation. Combined with that, my depression got a little bit in the way regarding this story. Nothing to do with y'all, I would never blame you for anying, it is simply my RSD being shitty.
> 
> Love y'all <3


	16. Chrysalis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They gave Pandora a box. Prometheus begged her not to open it. She opened it. Every evil to which human flesh is heir came out of it. The last thing to come out of the box was hope. It flew away.” (Timequake, Kurt Vonnegut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Strangulation
> 
> If this could trigger you, skip the lines between "He slowly approached her. 'I thought I could finally see… I never thought…'" and "The Comte cried out and fell back, releasing his grip..."

Raoul finally gave Nadir permission to untie Christine. Whoever had tied the rope apparently had done it so well that faint indentations were left on the Vicomtesse's skin. He remembered feeling his stomach drop as he changed her nightgown. Such actions… The mere thought of him tying up his late wife in some sick attempt to control her made him ill.

Christine's recovery fell to a snail's pace. The snake-oil-like substances Blanchet gave her made her lethargic and weak. Her fever showed no signs of stopping any time soon.

The conversations Philippe, Raoul, and Dr. Blanchet were having grew much more chaotic and raucous. Philippe’s voice was most prominent, with its rough quality drowning out everyone else’s. He sounded… Worried. It was odd because, for a moment, Christine genuinely considered the idea that he… Well, he cared for her in some sort of fashion. 

Nadir’s ever-growing presence was a welcome one, but there were moments where she wanted to be alone so she could speak with Erik. He listened to everything she said, no matter how nonsensical it was. Nadir was silent with a constant look of concern spread across his smiling face.

It felt mocking. As mocking as the looks Parisians would throw at her while she was drowned in black. Pity was as sharp as a blade.

A vase of roses was left at her bedside. The petals were as red as a drop of blood from an open wound. When the dresser and wallpaper grew boring, she would study them for what felt like hours. She studied each of the several thin veins across the five petals and attempted to count them. Often, she would compare her wrist to them. Her left veins matched the outer petal just vaguely. 

The butterflies enjoyed resting on the roses. The veins of its wings matched the petals perfectly — she was envious of that.

She found herself crying from time to time. Bouts of aimless tears that seemed to flow whenever they pleased. It was refreshing yet frustrating. A weight would lift from her chest, yes, but every tear felt like she was admitting weakness. That was all she did, was it not? Just whine and cry over and over.

So useless. So incredibly useless.

She opened her eyes. Dried tears clung to her cheeks and the corners of her eyes. She attempted to moisten her dry mouth. Her doorknob rattled and clicked.

He slammed the door shut and began storming towards her. "I have been trying to drown these thoughts out for the past week."

Christine forced herself to sit up, her eyes widening. "Philippe?"

"It's been goddamn _torture._ All of these fucking voices taunting me, _her_ voice —" He grabbed both of her arms with a firm, white-knuckled grip. "You saw something that night. Everyone else may think you're mad, but _I_ don't — _I_ understand. _I_ am not mad."

Her breath quickened rapidly. Every bone in her body felt as cold as ice. His eyes were daggers that pierced her own with as much anguish as Oedipus himself.

"What did you see? He demanded. "I need to know. Spare no detail."

"I — I —"

He began to shake her violently. _"Speak, woman, speak!"_

His voice, his yelling, had wrapped a noose around her neck that threatened to tighten at any moment. 

Her tongue felt swollen and numb in her mouth. She could not breathe. Her face burned and her mind ran a mile an hour, hardly comprehending anything. She was just as afraid as she was that fateful night.

What had happened? Philippe had been fine before, if not a little agitated; but that was hardly a sign of anything. Why now? Why _her?_

"You're not supposed to be in here," she squeaked.

"Oh good God, woman, will you _shut up!?"_ Philippe roared, clawing at his scalp. He began pacing the room, muttering to himself.

Her breathing grew painful as her chest constricted.

Olive-skinned hands slid up Philippe's shoulders. The man froze, his eyes becoming glazed over in terror. Sorelli's lips pressed against his ear and whispered incomprehensible words into it. Whatever she had said made him begin to hyperventilate. 

For a moment, Christine had thought he had forgotten she was there. But when his eyes slowly slid over to her, her blood ran cold. 

"You can see her," he whispered. It was not a question.

“I —”

“You… Can _see_ her,” he repeated, “I can tell. Your _eyes…”_

She bored through Sorelli — begging, pleading…

_Help me._

But she stood perfectly still.

Christine pressed her back against the bedframe. Her pillows bunched up behind her.

"Of course," he whispered, "of course you can fucking see her!"

"I — I don't understand —"

He slowly approached her. "I thought I could finally see… I never thought…"

His hand slammed into her neck, his fingers curling around it as her breath was forced from her. “This is _your_ fault,” he spat, _“you_ are the reason everything has gone to _shit.”_

His fingers tightened around her neck — pressing, crushing. She could feel her esophagus closing just as quickly as black dots filled her eyes. There were no butterflies. 

“Did you force them to do this? Did you seduce them like you did Raoul? Did you shake Mephistopheles’ hand and smile while doing it?”

She wheezed as spittle covered her chin. Someone was banging against the wall. It was violent and desperate. Her dresser began to squeak against the wooden floor as it was pushed. The door which separated her from Erik opened just a crack. She reached a shaking arm out to him. Perhaps, if she reached her fingers out far enough, she would defy all logic and reach his touch.

Christine attempted to ram her knee into his stomach, but it was never strong enough. The air was as thick as liquid, slowing every one of her movements. Was he truly prepared to murder her? To carry Atlas' weight for the rest of his existence? 

She knew she was not ready to die. Not with Erik still locked away. Not when the truth was just at her fingertips.

Her fingers pressed into his eyes. The Comte cried out and fell back, releasing his grip. Christine threw herself off the bed and pressed herself against the wall. She kept a hand protectively over her neck as she gasped. The air was oddly pleasurable as it rushed through her. Her body was in a state of panic and calm — each fought for control.

Philippe's eyes were reddened and tear-filled. He stared at her with hellish fury. His face was contorted and teeth were bared.

Christine peeled herself from the wall slowly. Her hand rested under the bed.

Erik had ceased his attempt to escape. If she strained her ears, she could hear his rough breath. Philippe still had not noticed or acknowledged him.

The Comte straightened his back. He remained heaving with a feral look in his eyes, but his expression became as composed as his posture. 

"You will be our downfall," he spat, "Raoul will hurt because of _you."_

He slammed the door behind him.

Christine stood with a start. Her body swooned forward as she balanced her weight upon her feet. Her knees were still awfully weak, though, that was expected given their lack of use. Slowly but surely, Christine stumbled over to her dresser and pressed her full body weight against it. The screech it emitted was ghastly and her muscles protested greatly against their movement, but she would not let such things stop her.

Erik had fallen to his knees, heaving. His visible skin glistened with sweat. Despite that, he stood with the speed of a lightning strike. He grasped her hands. “What happened?”

Her lips parted. A sob escaped her as she collapsed into his thin arms. Her arms wrapped firmly around his thin frame as if he were an anchor grounding her to reality.

“Will you be okay?” He whispered.

“I don’t know anymore,” she admitted.

There were no more words they could share. They were tied together, sailing in a boat towards the end. It was not as if Erik could assure her of things he could not assure to himself. Telling a white lie felt comparable to the greatest sin. 

He sat on the floor and rested his back against the wall. She rested her head against him, syncing her breath with the rise and fall of his chest.

She fell asleep with thin hands running through her hair.

* * *

Nadir visited her bedroom a couple of hours after she left Erik. Her body still tingled from the contact.

The Persian brought oatmeal. It was every evening, at eight P.M., that he would arrive. When her hands were still too weak and shaky, he would gently feed it to her. Even if he did give pitiful looks, he was never cruel as he placed the spoon in her mouth.

“You look better,” he commented as he took the bowl from her.

“I suppose I  _ feel  _ better.” She shrugged. “I can walk now.”

He nodded. “Good, good.”

“Do…  _ You  _ feel alright?”

Nadir frowned. “Of course. Why?”

She scratched the back of her head. “I’m sure it’s been quite a stressful time for you. I can hear you arguing with the other men.”

“Ah.” His lips thinned as he looked away. “Yes. I… I have seen better days.”

Her smile was weak. “So have I.”

“But you needn’t worry about me.  _ I’m  _ not the one stuck in bed all day,” he said, finally sharing her expression.

“I suppose you’re right,” she shrugged.

“Now, I’m set to visit the city this week, so I was wondering if you needed any books or entertainment to… Pass… The… Time…”

He froze, his brows furrowing. Christine mirrored his expression with a hint of confusion as she cocked her head. “Is something wrong?”

“There are bruises on your neck.”

Christine’s hand flew to her neck. After a moment of silence… “I do.”

“Christine…”

“You want me to tell you what happened. I know.” She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed the bile that had formed. “I know.”

Nadir gently took her shoulders. “Christine, you’re scaring me.”

_ “I know,”  _ she repeated.

“And I think…” He huffed and took his cap off. “I don’t think I can be a bystander anymore. I know you want to keep your privacy but at this point…”

“Philippe.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Philippe did it,” she confessed. Atlas’ curse had been lifted from her shoulders. “He… He was angered and began to choke me.”

Nadir was silent. He looked away once more as he rubbed at his beard. After a moment, he sighed. “My God.”

“Yes…” She took his shoulders this time, squeezing them until the tips of her fingers were red and white. “Please don’t say anything.”

“Christine…” There it was again — that domineering, parental voice.

“Yes, yes, I know, I know.” She shook her head. “But this is for a different reason.  _ Please.” _

__ “If this is about protecting Raoul —”

“It has  _ nothing  _ to do with Raoul,” she snapped.

After a moment of mild shock, he scoffed. “Then what? What could  _ possibly  _ be more important than your own safety?” The Persian stood from the bed and began pacing.

“You wouldn’t understand…”  _ Or maybe he does…  _ “It’s — It’s complicated.”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s complicated! I’m…  _ sick  _ of watching you fester day after day after day like a fucking dimwit!”

Christine wrapped her arms around herself. She was weeping again — just barely — but it was still frustrating.

She could not. Nadir would not understand. Not to mention Erik… Oh, he would be furious if she told someone about him without his consent. And Nadir — she knew he was not as loyal to the de Chagnys as she once thought, but that did not mean he was not loyal to the law. What if he said something? Oh God, the gendarmerie would not spare Erik for a moment.

She could not.

“It’s Erik,” she whispered.

Nadir’s eyes widened as his face paled. He slowly turned. “What did you say?”

She lifted her head and met his eyes. Her own stung with fresh tears as the world blurred. “Erik,” she repeated loudly, “I’m protecting Erik.”

“You… How?”

“How?”

He took a step closer. “How did you… How could you know he existed?”

“He spoke to me,” Christine said softly.

“You know me, Daroga, quite the social butterfly.” 

Both of their heads snapped towards the dresser. They looked — and felt — like fools, and certainly shared the expression of one.

Christine took the pains of speaking first. “How? Why? How did  _ you  _ know he existed?”

He scoffed. “I should be asking you that, mademoiselle. I’ve been here for decades — it makes sense for me to know who he is.”

Erik sighed. “She just told you. Now, can one of you move this foolish piece of furniture so I can be a part of this conversation that is about me?”

Nadir pushed her back down before she could attempt to stress her body out once more. He opened the dresser first. Christine began to say something about it but was immediately silenced by the sight of him removing several weights hidden beneath frocks and light chests.

_ So  _ that  _ was why it was so heavy. _

__ Erik walked out of his “room” but refused to join Nadir in sitting beside her. He kept his hands tightly clasped, practically impossible to see, and stood with perfect posture… So strangely calm over such odd circumstances.

“Well,” Nadir began, “this is certainly an exciting day.”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Erik rolled his eyes and inclined his head towards Christine. “Christine, this is Nadir.” He inclined his head the other way. “Nadir, this is Christine. I am quite sure you know each other and are friends already. You two both know me. The end.”

She smiled at his bluntness.

“So, you are the one who unchained Erik,” the Persian hummed, “that certainly makes more sense compared to ‘The chain simply snapped, Daroga.’” His mimicry of Erik was terrifyingly spot-on.

Christine looked down at her sweating palms and merely grunted in response.

“You know, a gardener found the shed door destroyed and the axe missing. At first, I believed it was just some drunken thief, but then, I saw your arm…” Nadir grinned. “It seems you were getting in some mischief for your Erik, Daaé.”

She flushed. “Perhaps.”

“That axe was never returned, however.”

“I… Have been keeping it under my bed. Just in case,” she admitted.

Nadir frowned. “In case of what?”

Christine and Erik looked to each other. As she slowly turned back to Nadir, she answered, “Just in case.”

He nodded solemnly, seeming to understand more clearly. “Right.”

“Now what?” She asked softly.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to…”

“Going to report you?” He finished. Christine nodded, and he scoffed. “God, no. Leave the betrayal to men like Judas and Brutus.”

“But we cannot keep this charade going on forever,” Erik said, “and Christine cannot continue jeopardizing her safety for…”

_ “You,”  _ she mouthed.

Nadir sighed. “You’re correct. Though, I fear divorce might not be an option in this sort of situation.”

“Then take us away.”

His face fell for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “Take you away? As in… Escape?”

She nodded. “Take us away from here; far, far away,” she begged, “I don’t care where — as long as we are nowhere near Bordeaux.”

“Compared to anything else we could do, Daroga, this is our best shot,” Erik added.

“A risky one,” he mumbled.

“Any other plan would be just as risky.”

Nadir laughed and sighed simultaneously. “Quite true.” The older man took Christine’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He turned and glanced at Erik. She could not see the expression the Persian gave the young man, but the warmth that filled Erik’s eyes told her enough.

Hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop, I wrote the rest of this in one night! Hopefully, Philippe's... Uh... /Violent acts/ weren't too out of nowhere. I tried to drop in as many hints as possible without waving a bright flag around and yelling. I think my earliest hint was Christine's meeting with Philippe where he was just staring intensely at nothing and then said something.
> 
> There a lot of details I forgot to mention when it comes to treating hysteria (Specifically, the out-of-date female hysteria/No, Christine doesn't have hysteria. She's just going through a major mental breakdown). This was mostly due to time limits and story consistency. Sometimes, people were sent to asylums, but there were exceptions. Christine was not sent due to the family name. By the 19th century, a man named Jean-Martin Charcot was one of the proponents who argued that hysteria was more common in men than women. This sparked the belief that hysteria had less to do with supernatural reasons but mental ones. Female hysteria was later attributed to "feminine" desires. Since these sort of theories were being made around the industrial revolution, it was thought that the major development of cities and the modern lifestyle were disrupting this "appetite" and causing "lethargy or melancholy" which led to hysteria. Women mostly hired the Victorian equivalent of a massage therapist (And no, not /those/ kind of massages, you... >:) ). Either that or they carried around smelling salts. I technically broke the historical accuracy rules here by not doing any of that, but I also wanted to emphasize Blanchet's, er, untrustworthiness??? Yeah, he may be a doctor, but he's also somewhat of a snake-oil salesman. We'll see more of him much later.
> 
> Now, on to the weird vibrator theory that people are especially fond of. Yeah, it's just a theory. Rachel Maine's came up with it. If you're unaware, the theory is basically that doctors treated hysteria by masturbating their patients to the point of orgasm (Thus the term "hysterical paroxysm). The inconvenience of it may have motivated the invention and marketing of the vibrator. and that the inconvenience of this may have motivated the original development of and market for the vibrator. This theory, however, is disputed. Some historians claim that Maine's theory is a distortion of the evidence or that they are only relevant to a very small group. That being said, people don't really care about the veracity of this theory, and now, there are too many articles talking about it because people find it ~scandalous~ and therefore, truth doesn't matter and the idea that Victorians could be HUMAN (Gasp) is too insane for people and ;dlfknsakjgndakjgnksDJFNK
> 
> Sigh. Anyway, I didn't feel comfortable writing something like that. It felt gross and I just didn't want to include anything that might not be accurate (Not accurate and isn't for story reasons!!!). Yeah.
> 
> Lesson over!!!
> 
> Kudos and comments feed the cryptid!


	17. Lady Macbeth's Lament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,  
> "Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,  
> "To the last syllable of recorded time;  
> "And all our yesterdays have lighted fools  
> "The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!  
> "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,  
> "That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,  
> "And then is heard no more. It is a tale  
> "Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,  
> "Signifying nothing."  
> (Macbeth, Shakespeare)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide
> 
> If this could trigger you, skip everything between "Raoul held his arms out..." and "Raoul spun around..."

Happiness was a fleeting thing.

For a moment, she felt on top of the world, a god amongst men. But it was dashed quickly. Reality set in with each maid, doctor, or nobleman that entered. It added a weight to her, waiting to crush her.

She plucked her hair from her hairbrush. A hairbrush that did not match the needs of her hair. A hairbrush that hurt. A hairbrush that did not belong to her.

Her knuckles turned white. White as the balcony which she saw in her dreams. A white that had long since faded.

Philippe had entered her room again. He had said nothing — only stared at her as she laid in bed. A quick glance at the roses, and he left.

Why had that started a fire in the pit of her stomach? She did not fully know. Perhaps it was merely the spark that set off the barrel of gunpowder in her soul.

She tore herself from the pit of her bed. Her legs were firm and balanced with her singing blood. The bottles of snake-oil rested on her nightstand — Raoul believed she could do no wrong with them. She forced the lids off. There was no remorse in her soul as the liquid poured into the vase. She knew now who the roses were from.

She hoped the flowers would rot in Hell.

Eventually, however, someone would notice. Raoul walked in as she adjusted her gown — one of a pink shade, so refreshing compared to the whites she had been shrouded in.

"Where is your medicine?"

Christine's smile was cold. "A maid spilled them."

"Who? I'll —"

"Don't bother," she replied, waving her hand, "I've already dealt with it."

Raoul shook his head and approached her. His hand made her shoulder tense. "I'll contact Blanchet, then. I'm sure he'll be forgiving."

"You know what? I don't think I need it anymore. I feel _much_ better."

She forced him to leave it at that.

Most of her day was spent whispering to Erik with her body pressed against the wall. They spoke of a world outside of de Chagny Manor, somewhere alive. She carefully described Perros-Guirec — the rough sand beneath her feet and between her toes, the warm sun resting over her like a blanket, the choir of birds, and the constant crashing and roaring of the waves that matched the power of a drum.

Erik decided he wanted to visit one day.

Christine promised he would.

Philippe began to yell more. She no longer flinched.

Sometimes, things would shatter. Lots of things. Christine could only assume that they were the glasses Philippe kept in the study and his bedroom — he had an infinite amount. Once, a glass shattered against her door. She ignored it and kept embroidering.

He truly hated her now — it was far beyond the casual annoyance and disgust he used to feel. This was blood-boiling; the kind of hatred that made the purest of saints imagine violent acts with pleasure. She supposed it was a shared sentiment. Constant pressure could wear down the wills of the highest mountains.

Currently, her day had been rather chaotic. She usually remained rather stoic and neutral about it all, but today her stomach twisted and tickled with anxiety. Each noise made her flinch. Unusual.

She snapped her thread with her teeth. Her latest piece was a recreation of the camellia Nadir had given her. It had long since rotted away, as all flowers did once severed from their lifeforce, but she could remember it as clear as day. That was one of her happier memories while in the manor.

The embroidery was rather lovely, all things considered. It was an ambitious project for her — she did not embroider detailed pieces usually. She found herself rather fond of the many colors.

Night had fallen since she began. A maid would come and fetch her soon. It would be her first night eating with the de Chagnys in a long time. She almost considered feigning illness. The bed disgusted her too much to indulge the thought.

She tucked her embroidery into her nightstand drawer and left her bedroom. There was yelling again. It was almost as if God was asking her to watch — the door was open a crack, just enough for her two eyes to gaze into. She did so.

The two brothers stood facing each other a distance away. It was not unlike the sketches she had seen of men in seventeenth-century fashion dueling each other with ornate pistols. Was that what the fights between them were like? A dance with death?

Raoul was in the middle of stepping forward. “— It’s one thing to simply get distracted. I understand that; it happens to me. But to… To start rambling about nothing in front of Silas? To talk over him and — and disrespect him? You —”

“I wasn’t interrupting him,” Philippe corrected, “Sorelli was speaking. It would be rude not to respond.”

“Christ.” Raoul heaved and ran a hand through his hair. The moon and darkness dimmed the gold it usually carried. “This again.” 

Philippe repeatedly tapped his temple, his eyes wild. “She's there — she's always there. Whispering in my ear…"

Raoul winced. "Philippe —"

"You hear her, don't you, Raoul?" He laughed and ran a hand through his already mussed hair. “The woman is a goddamn chatterbox! Even your damn wife notices!”

Raoul grabbed his arm. "You've gone mad."

He burst into another fit of laughter. "Me? _I'm_ the one who's gone mad?"

_"You're_ the one who is speaking to the walls."

"T — To walls?" Philippe stared at him incredulously. "Are you blind? Sorelli is there, goddammit, and she knows what she's doing! She revels in it!"

"And what is she doing?" Raoul snapped.

Whatever had made Philippe human disappeared from his eyes. It was tired and animalistic — something feral and distant. The man's hands grabbed Raoul's cravat. "She's torturing me."

Philippe threw his brother back. He began walking around the room like a lion tied to a pace chain, muttering to himself. Christine clenched her fists. Was this what was to become of her?

Raoul spoke again, "It's your drinking, isn't it?"

"What?" The older man's frown deepened. His pacing continued. "No, no, no… No, drinking is a _relief._ You — You would know that if you were paying attention."

"Paying attention to what, Philippe? Your stupid outbursts? Your obsession with a dead woman that hardly matters anymore?"

"Don't insult Sorelli like that," he spat. Such a strange thing to defend the woman who tortured him.

Raoul scoffed. "She's _dead,_ Philippe! Her corpse couldn't give less of a fuck if —"

The man cried out as something solid slammed into his temple. It flew by too fast for Christine's eyes to see, but the noise it made at contact with Raoul was audible enough.

A silver pistol shimmered in the moonlight.

Raoul stepped back. "Oh my God. Oh my God, Philippe —"

Christine bit down on her thumb. She could taste blood.

"If you won't fix this," he heaved, "I'll fix it myself."

Raoul held his arms out as he slowly approached the man. "Philippe, Philippe, listen to me, give me the gun —"

_"GET AWAY!"_ Philippe slammed the nozzle of the gun against his temple. His hands shook violently, barely holding onto the actual weapon… Yet his one finger remained firm on the trigger. _"GET THE HELL AWAY OR I SWEAR TO GOD —"_

His face fell.

There she was, Sorelli, standing in the center of the room just behind Raoul. Her mere presence seemed to beg Philippe to pull the trigger. Christine wondered with a sickening feeling if _that_ was what Sorelli would whisper into his ears: temptations as sinful as Eve's, begging for him to join her beyond the veil, to atone for his past.

"No," he whispered.

The nozzle of the gun was shoved into his mouth.

Raoul threw his hand out. "No —"

A deafening bang.

Philippe's lifeless body fell to the ground. Christine's blood ran cold. She screamed.

Raoul spun around, seemingly more terrified by the sight of Christine than his brother's death. He refused to move but held out an arm. "Christine, Christine, it's okay. Breathe."

Everything around her felt blurred. Her body was not her own.

"Christine," he said calmly, "I need you to get a servant, okay? Tell them to send someone over."

She nodded weakly, slipping out of the doorframe and collapsing against the wall. Several nosy maids, now shocked, stared at her from the stairs. Christine's mouth felt dry.

"Send the — Send —"

She did not need to finish. The women were gone, rushing down the stairs whispering to each other fervently.

She wanted to vomit yet her body could not produce anything. Her body felt sickeningly empty; a hollow shell just like the manor. Never had she seen blood so red…

Christine spun around and used one arm to balance herself against the wall and the other to cover her mouth. She dry heaved as her stomach contracted painfully. Those horrible images of death would not leave her; Papa, the spirits, Philippe… Only death and decay remained.

She could feel Sorelli behind her, watching her patiently. Christine slowly turned her head and glared at the woman.

"Why?" Christine whimpered. _"Why?"_

Sorelli did not answer. She kept her eyes on Christine as if the answer was obvious.

"Will you torture me, too? Continue to taunt me as you do? My life is already a living Hell, must you make it worse?"

Silence. 

"Answer me!" Christine screamed. She no longer cared if anyone saw or heard her.

Silence.

Christine heaved a sob and scrubbed her eyes with her palm. “You disgust me.”

_“No, I don’t.”_

She froze, her eyes widening. Sorelli stared at her with the same look of neutrality. _“You’re happy he’s gone,”_ she continued, _“you just don’t know it yet. Those tears aren’t for him.”_

"Stop lying." She almost sounded like a child.

_"Lying is a sin. I only speak the truth."_

Christine's tears slowed as her emotions did. She fell against the wall.

_"Think about it."_

She fell to her knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, yeah. I'm sorry.


	18. Hand In Unlovable Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The greatest griefs are those we cause ourselves.” (Oedipus Rex, Sophocles)

Dawning her black dress was akin to greeting an old friend. Death itself had decided to make itself an acquaintance, it seemed, as it happily entered the manor and reentered her life. Covered mirrors, black armbands, a frozen clock, a black wreath, a parlor filled with lilies. What a wonderful reunion.

Raoul did not mourn — at least, not in the way Christine expected. He had not shed a single tear nor had he spent a single moment contemplating over the body. He did what had to be done — shutting the eyes, setting the jaw, washing the body — and nothing more. It was as if Philippe had not been his brother at all but rather an estranged acquaintance, someone of little importance.

And, perhaps, Christine was overthinking. Perhaps, she was looking too deeply into something that was not as big as she thought. Everyone mourned differently, after all. But this, this felt different. This felt off. There was not a hint of remorse in Raoul's eyes, not a hint of sadness. He was an empty husk. An unsurprised, empty husk.

The funeral was just as dreary with little to no attendees nor mourning cards nor locks of hair given away. It was expected, of course. Those who died by suicide were not supposed to be honored or celebrated in such a culture — even those belonging to rich families.

Christine was almost glad for once that she was completely ignored by those attending the funeral. The dread of having to repeat what she had said during her papa’s funeral haunted her every night before.

There were moments when mourners would look to her and nod. They were a cold acknowledgment.

It was not that it upset her. She probably deserved the disdain. Christine did not mourn Philippe. Just like Raoul, she felt nothing. There were moments where she was disgusted by it, and there were others where she embraced it. Philippe had been a darkness that clouded over her — while she did not wish for his death — _that was a lie —_ she also did not wish for it to be undone… Not like her papa.

Perhaps, Sorelli's words held an inkling of truth. Her tears never were for him. And maybe — good God — maybe she was happy he was gone.

As she looked upon the now closed coffin being covered in dirt, she wondered what lied ahead of her.

* * *

Raoul had separated from his wife. Normally, Elizabeth would barely acknowledge the fact, but today was slightly different. Today, he followed her like a pathetic puppy. She had to fight back the urge to wrinkle her nose at the sight.

She carefully slid her way through the crowd to stand beside him. Out of all of the staff, she was the only maid officially invited to mourn. For a moment, she felt just as superior as every other attendee in her black gown. For a moment, she could pretend to be someone amongst the royals. She could feign importance.

Her umbrella clicked shut as Raoul's sheltered her. He stared at something before him. 

Elizabeth glanced over. “How are you feeling?”

He snorted. “How do you think I feel?”

“You look bored, dead.” She pursed her lips. “Something is on your mind, de Chagny.”

“My brother is dead, and I feel that it was inevitable. That is all.”

Elizabeth bit back a sharper response. She followed the trail Raoul's gaze followed and was met with the sight of the Comtesse. The woman was gently speaking to the child of one of Philippe's old drinking friends. The small thing was perfectly unaware of the gloom today brought. Elizabeth envied that.

"It's the Comtesse," she finally said with a pang of jealousy, "you're worried about _her."_

"I am," he admitted, "horribly."

“Of course.” Her voice was cold.

"She's too innocent for all of this. I consider myself a selfish man for pulling her into it."

Elizabeth shook her head. "There is no such thing as an innocent person."

"But she —"

"She is just as awful as the rest of us," Elizabeth interrupted, "she is just as fallible as any other human. I think you know this by now. You _should."_

Raoul's lips thinned. His gloved fingers tapped against his umbrella. “I don’t believe that.”

_You don’t_ want _to._

“You’re being biased.”

The newly-titled Comte hesitated. He exhaled. “Perhaps, I am.”

“It confounds me that you continue to defend the woman — even after… Everything.” She turned her head towards him. “And everything you’ve heard.”

“Not everyone can be like Christine.” As if on cue, the Comtesse tickled the child, making it laugh loudly and obviously. It turned heads, and if it were not for the age of the brat, Elizabeth would have expected outrage.

“You sound like a foolish, love-struck teenager,” she scoffed.

He snorted. “I do, don’t I?”

“I swear, you will still defend her, even if she were to cuckold you to your face.”

"She wouldn't —"

"She's doing it behind your back already."

Raoul's face was pink. "That's only hearsay."

"It isn't when several servants can vouch for it. Just like everything else."

"'Everything else?' Elizabeth —"

"Don't try to shrug things off, Raoul. It's perfectly pointless."

He scoffed incredulously. "I'm not shrugging things —"

Elizabeth's voice was sharp. "Do you want her to repeat what happened to Philippe?"

“Why would that happen?” He asked, his head now fully facing her.

“You’ve already seen the incident that occurred a few days before Philippe died. If she sees anything more, I fear that…” Elizabeth did not finish the sentence.

Raoul’s face blanched at the thought. "No, she wouldn't —"

"It doesn't help that she's very much aware of Sorelli. I found the late Comtesse's music box in her nightstand drawer. That was how she knew of Sorelli's liking of _Faust."_

"She went to the attic…" he murmured.

"It seems so."

"You don't think she read…"

"Your bride would have been long gone by now if she did. Though, she does have a vague knowledge of your sister. The blue blanket."

The proclamation of the knowledge of its existence confirmed Elizabeth's every suspicion towards the woman. Too curious for her own good, that one.

"She'll learn of the burden sooner or later," she continued, "and with the obvious signs of madness, it appears a perfectly good time to deal with that."

He glared at her. “Are you suggesting…?”

“It is an unhappy idea, but yes.”

"I couldn't."

She shrugged. "You very well could. It is only a matter of your willingness. Who knows how long you have until your brother's fate befalls her as well? I'm sure that idea is a worrisome one — you are much more fond of her than him, yes?"

His eyes met hers. They held nothing in them. "It would be cruel, wouldn't it?"

"It is cruel to kill an innocent animal," she replied, "yet when one is injured and bleeding out, you kill it anyway."

“I…” He began chewing his lip furiously. A few seconds passed, perhaps even a minute. Then, he turned to face her. “We will discuss this later.”

Her smile was cold and thin. "Of course. But don't put off what can be done today."

Raoul joined the Comtesse's side once again and donned his husbandly facade.

* * *

He was contemplating something.

And why would he not be? He was burdened by life's many gifts — it seemed only reasonable to have his mind occupied. Even if there was a sense of tension between them, it felt necessary to at least attempt to comfort Raoul. They had been friends once, after all.

She approached his desk chair, light on her feet. The fire's heat pricked her skin. "How are you feeling?"

He stiffened. After a moment of crackling flames filling the silence, he chuckled weakly. "Everyone seems to be asking me that."

"I'm sorry," she murmured. She tugged at the black fabric of her sleeve. "You just appeared distant. It felt right to… To try providing comfort."

She heard the chair shift. Raoul sighed and turned to her with a smile. "You really are too angelic for this world."

Christine did not respond.

"If you must know, I am currently occupied by wills and becoming a comte."

_But not him. Not Philippe. Not your brother._

She fiddled with her bodice. “Do you think you’re ready to bear that title?”

"I don't think I have a choice," he replied with a thin smile, "and you? Are you ready to become a comtesse?"

"I wasn't ready to become a vicomtesse," she admitted, "how could I possibly be prepared for this?"

“You’re doing well enough.”

“But I could be better.”

"You're improving," he replied honestly. 

She winced. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I — I’m not.” His brow furrowed. “Why do you doubt me?”

“Well, I haven’t been the most agreeable vicomtesse as of late,” she answered with a tense smile, “though, I suppose you haven’t been as agreeable either.”

“What do you mean?”

Her face paled. “I mean, you’ve been awfully stressed lately. I — I didn’t mean any harm by it. Your temper has just been sharper as of late is all.”

“Has it?”

“You did act cruelly when I tried to refuse the gown during the ball. And you were rather indifferent after…” She licked her lips and looked away.

“I did what was needed,” he rejoined, “is that so unagreeable?”

Her head snapped towards him. “Cruelty wasn’t — _isn’t_ a _necessity_ in these situations.”

“How else would I get to you? It isn’t ‘ _cruelty’ —_ ‘spare the rod, spoil the child,’ you know?”

“I’m not a child,” she spat.

“And yet, here we are.” He snapped. “You always act in such a way — your outbursts, your stubbornness, your disrespect —” He snorted. “Whoring yourself out to that damn Persian.”

She faltered. “What?”

“Oh. Yes. That.” He hummed and nodded coldly. “Do you think I haven’t noticed? Do you think the maids and servants haven’t talked about your conversations with him? That no one has told _me?”_

“I — I haven’t — Messieur Khan and I are _friends.”_

He burst into laughter, throwing his arms out. “Of course! Friends! _Friends!_ Why didn’t you say otherwise?”

“Raoul, I’m not lying to you,” she insisted, “I would never —”

“I know by now not to trust your word, Lotte,” he snapped, “I’m not a goddamn idiot.”

Her knuckles turned pure white as she clenched her skirts. “I’m not _saying_ that, Raoul.”

“Well, you sure as hell act like it. Tell me, how many times have you bedded him now? Once? Twice?”

“I never bedded him! I’ve never bedded anyone!"

His hand felt like claws as it grasped her forearm with a white-knuckled grasp. Eyes like blades pierced her heart. “It is unbecoming of a wife to lie, Lotte. I will not allow myself to fall as low as a _goddamn cuckold!”_

Pressure rammed against her skull as her face burned with the heat of a thousand suns. Her chest felt as though her ribs warped and cracked — all with the goal of crushing her organs from the inside out. “Raoul —”

_“Don’t —_ Don’t try to play innocent with me. It may have worked for every other gullible bastard, but it won’t work on me.” Her forearm was growing cold and numb. His grip made the tips of her fingers a faded purple. “Why, Lotte? Why would you betray my trust like that?”

“I didn’t.” It was like talking with a brick wall.

“Do I not please you any longer? Has your play-toy been worn out? Has it become boring? Am I really that unworthy of you?” How quickly his anger faded and twisted into something she could not discern. 

Christine's jaw tensed. She tore her arm from him and held it close to her chest. "Raoul, I know you are hurting, but that gives you _no_ right to treat me like this."

“I am — I —” He huffed and smoothed his hair back. “I want to fix things between us, but I can’t if you — if you continue to feign innocence —”

“You can’t _‘fix’_ anything, Raoul. You can’t — There is nothing you _can_ fix.” Raoul’s face contorted in confusion. She sighed and looked to the floor, studying the twisted contorted design of the study’s carpet. “It’s never been the same between us since he died.”

“Philippe?” She shook her head. His eyes narrowed. "What are you implying, Lotte?"

Her lips thinned. The rims of her eyelids were inflamed. She did not want to admit it. She could not. The words felt cruel… Like a curse.

Christine clenched her fists and looked into those blue eyes. They were not the same as before. "I believe… That our hearts lead different paths."

"Lotte —"

She closed the door and scrubbed away her thin tears. As she wandered down the hall, she would look behind her. Raoul did not follow.

Nadir stood beside her door, his hands behind his back. She might have laughed at the convenient appearance if it were not for the ice that settled around her heart. Christine hurried towards him. Before he could say a word, she snatched his wrist and slung him into her room. Damn what the maids or Raoul might assume now.

“Christine —”

She slammed the door with her back. “I want to leave,” she declared.

Nadir took a moment to study her. Thousands of emotions crossed his face at once. “Now?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Well, we ought to prepare and —”

“I can’t stay here any longer,” she heaved, “we have to leave.”

He chewed at his bottom lip. His head raised to match her gaze. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And what _can_ you do?”

“Well,” he began with a weak smile, “I know there is a wonderful carriage just _waiting_ to be ridden again, Mademoiselle Daaé.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;00000
> 
> Also, sorry for some of the negative implications of Victorian views of suicide. It was a somewhat taboo topic then, and it's kind of impossible to write about a funeral without mentioning it. Luckily, this the time where Victorians did become more empathetic about suicide, especially compared to the older eras (I read one account of a reaction to suicide in the Regency Period — it's pretty gruesome, don't read it).
> 
> I had to put an Oedipus Rex quote in there. It's probably one of my favorite plays — it felt almost necessary to reference it. It's too bad it's often thrown aside due to the belief that it's just the ~weird incest story~ when it is truly a story discussing the Greek's view of fate. I blame Freud. Though, ngl, I do love the jokes I've seen on Tumblr and Twitter hehe. I do make one later on in this story, actually. Anyway!! I recommend reading it — there /are/ sequels (Oedipus at Colonus and Antigone), but in my opinion, they aren't as great as the original. It's up to you if you want to read them, though!!
> 
> This is the second to last chapter before act one comes to a close. Yes, we have even more to go through. Pack your bags, kids.


	19. Butterfly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “From now on until death she was going to have flower dust and springtime sprinkled over everything. A bee for her bloom. Her old thoughts were going to come in handy now, but new words would have to be made and said to fit them.” (Their Eyes Were Watching God, Zora Neal Hurston)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mild gore
> 
> If this could trigger you, skip the lines between "Erik let out a shuddering breath..." and "Raoul roared in pain and stumbled back as..."
> 
> I'll give a non-descriptive summary of what happened in the end notes.

Excitement fluttered in her core. She could hardly sleep last night, let alone keep her eyes closed for five minutes. If not for her consciousness scolding her for her selfishness, she would have talked Erik's ear off all night. Oh, how wonderful starting a new life would be!

Her feet were as light as butterfly wings as she flitted to her dresser. She greeted Erik first, of course, and then immediately dawned the frock she had worn when she first arrived in de Chagny Manor. It was the only frock that she had owned before her marriage to Raoul, and it would be the only garment, other than undergarments, she would keep on her.

She debated packing her other frocks, but each argument for doing so made her stomach turn. Nadir happily volunteered to procure new clothes ahead of time, easily obtaining her measurements. For once in her life, Christine did not argue. That man had enough money to last hundreds of generations.

Her breakfast was small as to avoid any chance of sickness during their ride. She ensured to speak as kindly as she could to the staff as they passed by, even offering Sebastian to sit beside her. Christine would miss them, she realized — well, not all of them, but the point still stood. Many were quite warm to her after some time, smiling at her as they passed or starting small conversations. The staff was the only thing she would have trouble letting go of.

There was one last thing she planned to do before Nadir arrived and took them away. She needed to see Raoul. She needed to see Raoul and say some certain… Things. Nothing horrible or obvious, but enough to keep his mind alert. A goodbye of some sort, she supposed. If things went their way, she and Raoul would never pass ways again.

She entered the parlor and paused. Raoul was not alone, it seemed.

A bespeckled man with graying brown hair turned to face her with a look of curiosity. Beside him was a leather bag that he kept close.

Odd. From what she had seen, Raoul had no acquaintances like him, let alone business partners.

_Well, you don't know that for sure, do you?_

Raoul cleared his throat. "Christine, this is Monsieur Marchand."

"Good morning, monsieur," she greeted, nodding her head. She prayed that they would skip the pleasantries and allow her to speak to her soon-to-be ex-husband one last time.

The man's smile was unpleasant. "Good morning to you as well, Comtesse. Your husband and I were just speaking of this, but I was wondering if I could ask you some questions?"

"'Some questions?'" She echoed. Her eyes fell to the bag. She had seen someone else carry one like it before.

"It's nothing too awful, just a few personal things." His smile widened as if it would comfort her. Those teeth were unnaturally straight.

She gulped. A cold hand touched her shoulder. "Go ahead."

"Wonderful! Now, Comtesse, tell me about those ghosts you've been seeing."

Her stomach dropped.

She remembered the bag as clear as day now. Dr. Blanchet held a similar one, quite worn compared to the one before her. 

Marchand was a doctor. She could tie the rest of the pieces together.

"Raoul…"

The Comte stood. "Lotte, it's not what you think —"

The hand's grip on her shoulder tightened. Sorelli's cold lips pressed to her ear. 

"Run."

Those butterfly wings now felt as heavy as boulders. Her lungs burned with the power of a conflagration and left her breathless in seconds. Never had stairs been so difficult to climb.

She collapsed against the wall before launching herself off and back into a sprint. A cold weight rested in her core.

Any feelings of love or affection had shriveled up and died. Its carcass laid in the drawing-room, its stench drowning out the entirety of the manor, choking its denizens — except its killer. No, the killer remained perfectly blind, believing that nothing had happened, that no crime had been committed. He had a content look upon his face every day despite the wretching of servants or the scavenging flies that tainted everything.

Christine threw herself into her bedroom and slammed the door shut. She pushed her nightstand and pressed it against the door. After, she sprinted across the room and began dragging the dresser. The aching of her muscles certainly matched the horrific screeching of wood scratching against wood, yet nothing was worse than painful ice that had settled in her head and stomach. 

She made sure that the dresser was firm against the nightstand. If it could halt Erik's attempts at exiting, it could certainly halt two men's attempts at entering.

Erik had opened his door with panic across his face. "Did they find out?"

She shook her head as she approached her bed and reached under it. "No," she muttered. Her hand wrapped around the axe's handle. She pulled it out and stood with a straightened posture. "He wishes to send me away — somewhere awful."

He understood immediately.

Fists slammed against the door. "Christine? Let me in. I just want to talk to you."

Her lips remained sealed. She turned to Erik and kept her voice low. "Nadir should be here any minute now, right?" 

"I should hope so." He glanced at her clock. "It is practically 6:30."

"Keep an eye out, will you?"

He hummed in agreement and stood at the balcony. The cold morning air brushed against her skin. Far too calm for the moment at hand.

Her fingers tapped against the handle of the axe. It was firm in her hands, the weight perfectly balanced between both of her arms. What the hell was she going to do with it? The mere idea of placing the blade against human flesh made her stomach turn. Blood — blood stained in more ways than just physical.

_"All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand."_

A fist slammed against the door once more. Christine flinched.

"Christine, _please."_

The soft weakness in Raoul's voice made her tempted for a moment to open the door. Surely, a man as soft as him was merely being misunderstood. If she just opened the door and let him in…

She glanced at Erik. No, she was wiser than that.

"Is he near?" She asked.

"Not that I can see," Erik muttered, "though, my vision is not what it once was."

"Out of all days to be late…" she muttered.

"Wait… Wait, no, there is an approaching dot."

The celebration ended as quickly as it arrived. The dresser and nightstand collapsed as a chunk of wood from her door cracked and fell out, creating a jagged hole in its wake. Christine yelped and held her axe out as if the blade were a shield. The crack in the wood revealed Raoul ramming another axe into it.

The wood fell apart easily as he continued. With every swing, Christine felt her heart ram against her chest as if it hoped to escape on its own. She almost thought to call it a traitor. She angled her head towards Erik once more. “Any closer?”

“Yes. I believe I could…” His voice faded as he opened the balcony door and stood at the edge of it. He called out to the man and waved violently. She could hear the wheels approach faster and faster.

Her doorknob turned and the door squeaked open. Raoul entered, a new but strained smile across his face. Behind him, Dr. Marchand was reaching into his bag, pulling out a mysterious object. 

“Lotte, you silly girl, why did you put all of that furniture in front of the door? I’ll have to replace everything! Now…”

Raoul stiffened as his eyes met Erik's. “Oh.”

Erik let out a shuddering breath.

Christine took her chance. She swung her axe, and it found purchase in Raoul’s shoulder. The squelching and warm blood that splattered her face filled her mouth with vomit. She spun away unconsciously and spat the liquid out. 

Raoul roared in pain and stumbled back as Dr. Marchand wrapped his arms around her. It was surprisingly thick and strong as it forced her arms down. All of her swinging was useless.

In his other arm, he held the mysterious object from before — a syringe. Christine gasped as she began to wriggle even more violently before, feeling a wild zeal burn in her core. She swung her head back and slammed it into Dr. Marchand’s face. There were a crack and a cry, and then —

She felt the needle jab into her arm. Christine gasped as the world grew tilted and blurry. Her grip on the axe loosened. In the distance, she heard it clatter to the floor. Her knees buckled. She felt herself fall to the floor, yet she felt no pain as the floor made contact with her elbows. Nerves slowly buzzed and nothing more.

A muffled cry of pain came from her left. Then, thin hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her up. The world spun once more, and once more, Christine dreaded the thought of vomiting. Erik's bandaged face came into her peripheral, blurred vision.

His muffled voice spoke, "Christine, can you stand on your own?"

She slowly shook her head. Her knees were still weak, and her feet felt nonexistent. Hands made contact with the back of her legs and waist, and she was suddenly lifted into the air. Erik's thin frame pressed against her. She rested her head against his bosom, feeling its quick movements. Her eyes fluttered closed.

The next moment she opened her eyes, they were outside. The cold air rushed against her like a cruel wave.

Erik's voice was cool and clear. "Christ, we are not going to make that jump."

They stood upon the railing of the balcony. Funny, Christine would have thought her stomach would have dropped seeing her feet so high off of the ground.

Nadir stood on the ground below beside a carriage. He looked up at them, his eyebrows pinched.

"Dar — ga, can you — her?"

Christine frowned. It felt impossible to keep her eyes open. They weighed so much more than usual.

Nadir now stood on the carriage. The warmth Erik had given her was gone. She whined at the separation.

She was gently placed into Nadir's arms. He held her tightly to his chest. She could smell Nadir's fine cologne. The scruff of his beard rubbed against her forehead and tickled it.

He fell from something. Her brain rocked against her skull. But then, he was gentle as he walked. Her finger fiddled with the smooth black button of his waistcoat. It was a fairly nice button; high-quality, slick, and smooth, not a flaw on it at all. The shade was as deep and rich as the few visible strands of Erik’s hair — she liked that. The thread that kept it attached to the fabric of his waistcoat was tight. It was wonderful. She would have to ask Nadir who his tailor was so that she could learn what their method —

“There we are.”

Nadir placed her on something plush inside of a box — the carriage, perhaps. Erik’s cold warmth appeared next to her. She wanted so very much to hold time tightly to it, him. The time he let her sleep on him as he played with her hair was wonderful.

There was a cracking noise, and suddenly, they were moving. She had not a clue where they were going but did not have an ounce of energy left to open her mouth to ask. Her vision was growing blurrier, and at moments, black dots would appear instead of butterflies.

Her eyebrows furrowed. Where were they?

"Christine?" Erik's voice interrupted. "Christine, how are you?"

Her tongue had turned into lead. The blurring was worsening, and the black dots were giving her a headache.

"Christine, can you hear me?"

Of course she could. He had a nice voice. Too bad she could barely understand him.

Her head nodded forward, and suddenly, she felt a hand push against her stomach. Erik cursed and wrapped his arms around her once more. Christine whimpered as she looked up at him. As her vision grew blurrier, everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Christine injured Raoul and briefly incapacitated him.
> 
> And that's the end of act one!!! Yeah, there's still more — it's tagged "slow burn" for a reason ;)
> 
> I feel bad for writing Raoul in this sort of situation :/ There were several moments where I was sitting there and thinking "Do I /have/ to write him in a negative light?" and then, I realized that certain things wouldn't make much sense if he weren't (I thought about doing a Crimson Peak and having an evil sibling duo, but Raoul's character motivations would be too weird and aaaa). Luckily, I won't have any other stories with a negative Raoul fgfdghsfdkj I feel too guilty to ever do that again (Unless you count Claudio as a sort of villain [Which he isn't really??? If you've read/seen the play] in Much Ado About Nothing, cause that's Raoul's role in a story I'm outlining pfffttt).

**Author's Note:**

> Whoo, this is a long time coming! This little fic has been brewing in my mind for a while now, and I worked on it as my NaNoWriMo project (I did get to 50k if you're wondering!!). I've finally got the bravery to post this, so hopefully, y'all enjoy it!
> 
> Antigonish is based on a few different gothic stories. I'd say the biggest is Crimson Peak, one of my favorite movies. There's a little bit of Rebecca in there as well as a smidge of Jane Eyre (You'll figure out what it inspired later on ;)). 
> 
> Anyway, I, once again, hope you enjoy this story! Please leave comments because I love talking to people <3!!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://pastel-cryptids.tumblr.com)  
> [NaNoWriMo](https://nanowrimo.org/participants/pastelcryptids/projects/antigonish)


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